


Give it a shot

by zjemciciastko



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deaf Character, M/M, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-11 16:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjemciciastko/pseuds/zjemciciastko
Summary: A collection of one shots, various pairings.1.Marc/Dani [T] - Marc prepares for a very special event2.Maverick/Valentino/Jorge [E] - Maverick enjoys watching3.Marc/Valentino [T] - If Marc keeps on crashing like that, Valentino's sure he'll have a heart attack before turning forty.4.Marc/Valentino [T] -But seriously, how could they believe that I mocked your injury?"5.Jorge/Dovi [T] - Jorge meets Andrea's daughter for the first time6.Marc/Dani [E] - Dani never cared about the umbrella girls. Or the obligatory introduction of the umbrella boys. That is, until he saw his own umbrella boy.7.Alex Marquez/Luca Marini [T] - Alex knows from the beginning that this will never work. They never will. Yet, he dives in, hoping that against all odds they will be the ones to fool destiny.8.Jorge/Marc [M] -Maybe one day I’ll love you like I love him.9.Maverick/Valentino/Jorge [E] - Continuation of #2.10.Jorge/Dani [T] - Post-surgery visit.11.Iannone/Rins [M]12.Jorge/Marc [T] - Jorge's natural lack of tact strikes again, but the outcome might be better than he expected. AU.13.Maverick/Valentino/Jorge [E] - Continuation of #2 and #9





	1. Marc/Dani [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marc prepares for a very special event

It’s almost time to go, he has more or less fifteen more minutes to get ready before he has to leave and he still looks nothing like he wanted to. 

Marc’s been fiddling with the button on the shirt’s right cuff for at least a minute now, trying to put it in the right place, to get it to hold the material over his wrist properly, but the little plastic isn’t cooperating. It slips from his fingers, turning, not going through the hole. He’s only getting the shirt crumpled, the white fabric getting more and more wrinkles; if it goes on like this, it will be unwearable soon. 

“Here.” Alex takes mercy on him, buttoning the cuff, doing the same with the other one right away to avoid seeing his struggle for the second time. 

Muttering a quiet _thanks,_ Marc looks back at the mirror, scrutinizing himself. He can’t tell how many hours he spent on choosing the right suit and shirt, trying on billions of them, with laughable results. Nothing seemed right, appropriate for the occasion, every material itching his skin and looking unflattering, colours either too bright or just faded, never the right shade. To make matters worse, the shoes are a bit too small. They were supposed to adjust, to fit his feet snugly, but comfortably, that’s what that lady at the store was saying, but her words don’t find the confirmation in reality. 

Having Alex with him, helping him choose the suit, was what kept him from losing sanity. Marc’s gratitude towards him for enduring all of that, giving advice on every piece of clothing Marc tried on patiently, not complaining (too much), is enormous. How Alex made it without murdering anyone (Marc) in the process is beyond him. 

They visited probably every shop within fifty kilometres, going from one to another in search of something that didn’t seem to be there. There was nothing that fit his vision of the perfect outfit, not one piece of clothing. 

On this day Marc wanted to look flawless. Or as close as he could get to it. 

“Is this okay?” Marc questions, tugging on the ends of the black bow-tie. No matter how much he tries to adjust it, untying and then tying again, multiple times, one end is always lower than the other. It gives him a sloppy look, like he doesn’t care where he’s going, something absolutely not acceptable for the occasion. Perhaps he should’ve worn another bow-tie or just go for a regular tie, less problems, but he doesn’t have much time. It’s too late to change it now. 

He’s gonna look horrible during the wedding. 

It’s not how he imagined it, not at all. This is a disaster waiting to happen, he will be the disaster, he’ll make Dani’s day a disaster. _Disaster, disaster, disaster._

Swatting Marc’s hands away from the bow-tie, Alex smooths the material on his shoulders, looks at him from head to toe. “You look really good. Really, you don’t have to worry.” And it’s the truth, Marc looks just as good as he always does. Alex doubts his brother’s ever had even something similar to a bad hair day. It doesn’t look bad even after a race, there must be some sorcery involved. He’s always been a little jealous of Marc’s good looks, him being more handsome and sought after, and even if Marc complained about his short stature, it didn’t change a thing. 

Those words don’t manage to ease Marc’s running mind, they’re not a reassurance Alex tried to make them be. Marc’s hair is a mess, his head is a mess and he himself is a mess, too. He’s always cared about his looks, tried to look presentable, find the clothes that flattered his figure (He won’t admit googling ‘what clothes to wear to look taller’, never, not happening.), but today it’s all wrong. He sights, slowly resigning to his fate. 

He wonders how Dani will look. Stunning, definitely, like he always does, having taken Marc’s breath away on multiple occasions. But seeing him in a suit is always something different, leaving Marc in awe at how the material clings to his body in all the right places. How he’s unable to avert his gaze when Dani’s dressed in formal clothes. Marc can’t understand the fact that Dani doesn't see himself in that way, having heard more than once the _short, disproportionate figure,_ and he wanted to scream at Dani for the words even leaving his mouth. _Why don’t you see how beautiful you are? Why don’t you see yourself like I see you?_

The tap on his shoulder brings Marc back to reality, Alex’s concerned face, marred with worry, now his main view. Marc wants to laugh it off, deem it as his brother being overprotective, but the words die in his throat. 

Then, he remembers the most important thing.

Marc starts searching through the pockets of his pants, then the jacket, rummaging through them thoroughly and turning them outside. They’re nowhere to be found, not in sight, vanished into thin air where he could’ve sworn he had them not two hours ago. Everything couldn’t get any worse. 

“Oh fuck!”

“Marc. Marc, calm down.” Alex’s voice barely reaches his ears, muted by the panic rapidly spreading in his mind. “I have the rings.” Alex takes the small box out of his pocket, opens it to reveal two gold bands. They glisten in the light, one only slightly smaller than the other, the gold reflecting the rays of the sun. 

He takes the little box from Alex, holding one of the rings, as relief floods his mind. “Oh, thank God.” For a second, he considers trying one of the bands on, checking how it would fit around his finger, but Marc disregards it quickly. 

The what ifs, what would’ve happened if he actually lost the rings, flash through his mind in a flurry of disappointed stares and the vision of getting killed by Dani, most likely with his own bare hands. A long and painful death. Well deserved. 

He needs a bit of time to calm down, his racing heart to slow and breathing to go back to its regular rhythm. Alex’s observing him, throwing worried glances, bites on his bottom lips; he isn’t sure if he can let Marc leave like that, the shaking of his shoulders, though now slightly weaker, but still there and his fingers flexing repeatedly. He wasn’t convinced by the idea since the very beginning, the moment Marc told him, but Alex knew better than to voice those thoughts. Marc would do whatever he wanted, regardless of anyone’s opinion. 

“Can you really go there? Are you okay?” Alex asks, the pity in his voice not helping at all. Marc doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it from Alex, doesn’t want it from anyone else, never wanted it from anyone. He’d prefer if someone kicked him in the ass and told him to get over it rather than people treating him as if he already got kicked. He hates this. 

After taking a deep breath in another futile attempt to calm himself down, Marc responds. “No,” he answers truthfully, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “But one day I’ll be. I hope, at least.”

Grabbing the little box where the bands are hidden and the car keys, Marc takes the last look at the clock as he closes the door behind himself with a soft thud. He has to leave asap, has just enough time to get to the place punctually, checks if he has everything he needs once again. The soft humming of the engine is his only company as he finally disappears from the driveway onto one of the roads, driving a few kilometres above the speed limit. 

_I can’t be late to Dani’s and his fiancée's wedding, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first work here on ao3 and I have to say I'm extremely nervous. Hopefully it's not too bad haha. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	2. Maverick/Valentino/Jorge - [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maverick enjoys watching

The first time it happens, it’s an accident. 

He has his motorhome parked next to Valentino’s, a pure coincidence, not something he deliberately planned. There was a free space and he took it, not thinking much about it. 

It’s a Saturday night and Maverick’s exhausted after the whole day of riding, that unexpected visit in Q1 dampening his mood. The only thing he needs is some relax, just laying in bed and resting before the race, calming his mind before tomorrow. He wants to open the window, let some fresh air from the outside in, the temperature not high enough to turn on the air conditioning. In a few steps he’s there, pulling the curtain aside, his hand already moving to turn the window handle, when he stops dead in his tracks, the lifted arm falling to his side. 

The shades in Valentino’s window aren’t closed, the space between their motorhomes small enough for Maverick to be able to see what’s going on inside, the room dimly-lit, by some bedside lamp probably. He doesn’t mean to stare, really, but the moment his eyes catch the two naked silhouettes propped on the bed, their movements indicating very clearly what exactly they are doing, he becomes petrified, both his mind and legs not working. 

He’s rooted to the spot, unable to move or avert his gaze, staring at Valentino and that guy he’s fucking, face downwards so Maverick can’t see who he is. Someone slim, pale skin, brunet, back bending in such a way that has his breath stop for a moment. Definitely attractive. And then, Maverick notices how Valentino’s hand goes to the guy’s hair, fingers weaving into it as he pulls on the curls to bring their mouths to meet. _Is that...Lorenzo?_

_Valentino Rossi is fucking Jorge Lorenzo in the next motorhome._

That sounds like something out of this fanfiction thing he’s heard about but never dared to check, afraid it might give him a permanent scare. But now that he thinks about, it couldn’t have been worse than what he’s seeing now, two fellow riders having sex in a motorhome maybe five meters from him. It doesn’t look like something they’re doing for the first time, either, Maverick notices how synchronised their movements look, Jorge pushing his ass back every time Valentino thrusts into him, both their mouths opening in what he assumes are moans or maybe growls. 

His throat has dried suddenly, hands clenching into fists as his face bursts into flames when he realizes his pants might be a bit tighter than they were a few minutes ago. 

_Stop. Stop. STOP._

It seems as if he’s lost control over his muscles, feet glued to the spot, eyes glued to Jorge and Valentino. Maverick has that one sane thought of pulling the curtain at least partially, covering him from the possible passers by who might look into his window, accidentally or not. 

When he sees Jorge’s arms shaking, orgasm quaking his body as Valentino bites on his neck, probably sucking a bruise there (Is that where Jorge’s love for scarves comes from?), Maverick jolts, the bathroom door closing behind him with a loud thud. 

The cold shower is not enough to get rid of his hard on and Maverick feel ashamed of jerking off for the first time in many years. 

*

Next time he chooses the spot for his motorhome carefully. 

For the whole time between the races he can’t stop thinking about it, what he saw, what happened, what Valentino did to Jorge and how good they both looked during that. The shame he felt at first disappears after two days, long forgotten when his pants and boxers are tangled around his ankles, the images of their bodies playing in his mind on repeat. Maverick doesn’t remember ever coming so hard, so fast. 

He tells his driver to park next to Valentino’s, says it’s convenient _in case Yamaha wanted something from the both of them,_ and the decision doesn’t get questioned, no one asks. 

On Thursday he’s disappointed; Maverick thought that after the press conference (one attended by all three of them, incidentally, one he spent on staring at his nails just so his gaze didn’t lock with any of theirs) Valentino and Jorge would make some time for each other, but during the evening the lights at Valentino's are off and the motorhome seems empty. 

His next chance comes on Friday. 

This time the room is lit when he draws his own curtain open, just a little bit, just enough to see and not to be seen, and they’re both inside, their clothes still in place. He observes how Valentino backs Jorge into the wall, cups his face and pulls him into the kiss, all tongues and teeth and so incredibly hot that Maverick already feels himself stiffen a bit. It only gets better from then on, first shirts and then pants thrown carelessly onto the floor, creating a little pile around their legs, and when they break from each other for a moment, he can see their tented boxers, showing they’re no less aroused than he is. 

He’s fascinated by how well they seem to fit, by how the years-long grudges don’t seem to matter anymore, by how Valentino treats Jorge with surprising gentleness, hands sliding over his body affectionately? Maverick can’t think of a better word because it looks exactly like that, like affection you shower a lover with, not someone whose guts you couldn’t hate any more. It’s really strange, but there’s a moment when he’s almost jealous of the two of them, missing someone treating him like they treat each other. 

When they’re finally on the bed, Jorge falling first and then Valentino on top of him, Maverick already has a hand down his boxers, observing the whole process of Jorge being prepared, slowly, sensually, and when Valentino makes the first thrust, he’s already spilling, coating the material and his fingers, a rapid change of underwear necessary. 

*  
It becomes a habit quickly.

Maverick doesn’t know which one of them he likes watching more - Valentino’s casual nonchalance, present even when he’s buried balls-deep in Jorge’s ass, tugging at his cock at the same time, or Jorge, whose face loses the mask it’s carefully schooled into for majority of the time, contorted with pleasure as orgasm washes over him, when Valentino hits that one spot that makes Jorge see stars. They’re both beautiful. 

Usually, he comes right after them, sometimes a little earlier, whole body shaking as the images of them are burned in his mind, and he can’t picture how gorgeous of a view the two of them must be up close. At this point, Maverick doesn’t even feel any shame when the moan escapes his lips, liquid spilling over his hand, doesn’t remember he felt it in the first place. 

The whole day he’s on the edge, the anticipation running through his veins, pumping the blood faster than it normally flows. He ignores the looks Valentino throws him in the garage, strangely frequent today, is relieved when he ends the second free practice with good time and rushes to his motorhome, already thinking of what he’ll see. He can’t be late. 

The show stars like usual, some sort of ritual for them, Maverick guesses, but those handcuffs laying on the bedside cabinet send shivers down his spine.

They get undressed slowly, no urgency he sometimes sees, mostly on Sundays after the race, when they probably let all the emotions accumulated on the track out. Jorge’s on his knees today, with Valentino behind him, Maverick’s fave, his chest and the curve of his cock so nice to look at, and Maverick’s hands go to the button of his jeans, wanting to get rid of them immediately. 

Only then, something isn’t right.

He sees them both looking at him, Valentino’s hand sliding down Jorge’s chest, slowly, deliberately, flicking over a nipple on its way to enclose Jorge’s cock in a firm hold, and he’s smirking at Maverick the whole time, even when Jorge’s head falls backwards on his shoulder. 

_Shit, the curtain. He forgot to close the curtain._

The panic petrifies him for a moment, legs not able to move, but when he comes to _(oh the irony of those words)_ , his first thought is to lay on the floor, followed by _maybe I should hide under the bed._ He would’ve laughed at himself, if he wasn’t so terrified either one of them or probably both Jorge and Valentino will kill him, soon. He can forget about that title already. 

He lays on that floor for a good hour with nothing happening before he starts hoping that maybe he’ll make it out alive. Had they wanted to murder him, they would’ve been here by now, right? He crawls around the room, avoiding any chance of being seen by them, finally closing that damned curtain from the floor level, only sticking his arm upwards to tug on the fabric. That seems like the safest way. 

Some time later his phone beeps, informing he received a new message. Maverick, already calm again, picks it quickly. Maybe someone from the team wants him to know something before the race tomorrow, tell him something important, so he needs to see what it’s about. He looks at the screen, thinks he should finally change that background, and after checking the sender, he sees that _technically_ he wasn’t wrong.

_Wanna join?_ the text reads, short and to the point.

And Maverick understands it, even though it isn’t written in Spanish or English, but Italian, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know? This one just wrote itself and I'm not sure anyone will read this considering the pairing, but if you did, thank you for reading <3


	3. Marc/Valentino [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Marc keeps on crashing like that, Valentino's sure he'll have a heart attack before turning forty.

“Do you want to give me a heart attack before I turn forty? Because you’re on a good way to do that.”

Valentino’s eyes scan Marc’s arm where a bruise is already forming, the skin changing colour into an ugly shade of purple. He saw the replay of the crash while he was sitting in the box, the screen showing what was currently going on in the practice, and he couldn’t stop the shivers that ran through his body at Marc being catapulted in the air and then not standing up for a moment. 

And to make matters worse, he then crashed once more.

“It looked nasty, but I’m okay.” 

Marc shrugs it off, like it’s nothing, like he’s not bothered by that high-side at all. And he probably isn’t, Valentino thinks, if his results are anything to go by.

“And then, right after it, you get that time. You’re insane.”

“Aren’t we all a little bit insane, honestly?” 

And Marc actually has the audacity to laugh at it. There’s a smile playing at his lips, disappearing for a second when he moves his left shoulder as it changes into a frown, one he immediately masks. He’s back to his regular cheerfulness the next second and really, Valentino shouldn’t be surprised by it at this point. He’d gladly smack some sense into Marc’s skull, but he knows well enough it wouldn’t change a thing, Marc’s stubbornness one of his most noticeable traits, but also because that pretty head of his is just that – too pretty. Valentino would probably forget what he wanted to do the moment Marc looked at him.

“Yeah, a little bit,” he accentuates the word ‘little’. “But in your case it’s a whole lot, not a little. I know you’re probably not going to listen either way, but at least try to be careful.” 

He’s had a fair share of crashes during his career, they all have, and it’s nothing surprising in the sport, but the fact that Marc is not only leading the championship at the moment but is also at the top when it comes to the amount of falls, scares him more than he’d admit out loud. The fact that Marc walks away from the most of them barely scratched, the luck always on his side, should be a relief, but it does little to ease Valentino’s worries. 

Marc sits down next to him, first on the sofa before moving onto his lap, legs spread around Valentino’s hips. His grin is replaced by the sort of seriousness Valentino rarely gets to witness, eyes focused and full of intent, hands moving to rest on Valentino’s shoulders. “I’m okay, really. I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to worry. I got a medical check and they didn’t find anything. I’ll have a few bruises, but that’s it.” 

“First you, then Luca. It’s a wonder my hair isn’t grey yet.” Valentino laughs, though there’s no amusement audible in his voice. 

“Right, Luca crashed, too. Is he alright?” Marc frowns, remembering the end of the FP2 in Moto2. It didn’t look that bad, if crashing at a high speed could be described as not bad, but he’s well aware that sometimes those inconspicuous accidents can have worse consequence than the seemingly more dangerous ones. 

“Yeah, thankfully his crash wasn’t as scary as yours. I couldn’t stand it, if something happened to either of you.” 

The words are out of his mouth before Valentino can think them through. His brain catching up with what he just said, he bites on his lower lip, hoping maybe Marc didn’t hear that. It’s useless, they’re too close to each other, faces barely a few centimetres apart, he notices Marc’s eyes widening a fraction, eyebrows rising, obvious signs that Marc, indeed, heard it all. 

Valentino hides face in his hands, wishing he could disappear. _Too soon, way to soon for those kind of words. Bet he’ll run away from me now, bet he was looking for something casual and not declarations like that._

He’s still surprised Marc wanted anything to do with him to begin with.

That night at Le Mans, after they both had managed to crash in the race, him on the last lap, fighting for the win to make it worse, Valentino went out to the closest bar he knew would be moderately private, away from the prying eyes of both the antifans and the journalists waiting for his smallest mistake. He just wanted a drink, or maybe five, the bitter aftertaste of that fall refusing to leave. He didn’t expect to meet anyone from the paddock there, hoped he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, but his wishes didn’t turn true as he saw Marc sitting in one of the darkest corners of the room with a glass of what Valentino assumed was alcohol. At it wasn’t his first, if the content of the table was anything to go by.

It went quickly from there on, with Marc attacking his lips when Valentino had gone to the toilet and a few bruises from hitting elbows on the walls, the toilet stall too small for the two of them. 

The motorhome, his obviously, since the last thing he wanted was to get caught by Marc’s little brother, was just the right size, though, and what he thought would be a one time thing, turned into regular meetings during every race weekend. 

And now, three months later, Valentino probably managed to mess it all up with one sentence. 

His stupidity is enormous, after 2015 he’s known some of the things he says he could get an award for, if only there were awards given for talking shit, but now it’s an entirely different kind of making a mess. 

He tries to hide from Marc’s view, make himself smaller than he actually is and maybe he could’ve succeeded, somehow, if only Marc wasn’t straddling him, the warmth of his body spreading onto Valentino’s lap. Marc’s scent goes into his nose, his signature cologne, the one Valentino’s already become accustomed to, and there’s nothing he wants more than burying his face in the crook of Marc’s neck. But he doesn’t, stays still, waiting for Marc’s move. 

Then, there are hands clasping his wrists, forcing him to face Marc, and he can’t help being worried what he’ll see.

Marc stares back, gaze as intense as ever. He seems thoughtful, the usual playfulness evaporating, Valentino getting more nervous with each passing second, without having an idea what to expect. _Did I mess it up? It’s the end?_ It probably is and he curses himself for not being able to shut up for once, he hasn’t learned anything, it seems. 

“I’m sorry, I obviously didn’t want to scare you. And I’d hate it, if something happened to you, too.”

There are lips brushing against his own in a soft manner, much more gentle than what Valentino’s used to, and in the first moment he doesn’t respond, surprised. It’s not a reaction he expected, not a confession he thought he’d hear from Marc. Up until this point he didn’t think Marc cared much about him, didn’t think it was more than just some casual fun they were having. _Even if it was never just casual fun for me._ So this, knowing that Marc does actually care, even if a little bit, feels like the best thing that’s happened to him this year. And it probably is. 

He finally starts responding to that kiss, but then Marc breaks away, the mischievous glint back in his eyes, grin falling in place. “What, cat got your tongue? It’s a shame, I rather liked it.” 

All the tension suddenly leaves Valentino’s body, his posture relaxing, falling back against the sofa they’re sitting on. Taking a deep breath, he lets go of all the worries running through his mind, a little smile finally showing. His hands move under Marc’s shirt, caressing the warm skin of Marc’s back gently, as he leans forward and whispers, breath tickling Marc’s ear. “I’ll show you where exactly my tongue is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, one day Marc will give us all a heart attack. This is just something quick because that crash looked pretty scary...
> 
> As always, thank you for reading <3


	4. Marc/Valentino [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"But seriously, how could they believe that I mocked your injury?"_

"I can't believe it. Why would they think that, seriously."

Valentino sights, moving slightly so that Marc has some more space on the bed they're both on, careful not to hurt his leg any further. Wrapping an arm around Marc's waist, he brings their bodies closer, watching how a head falls on his shoulder, the black hair tickling his chin. The unexpected visit, Marc standing in the door of his hospital room in the evening, surprised him greatly, Luca's help in sneaking Marc in even more.

"You know how people are. They'll use anything against you, they'd use anything against me, too. There's no point in caring about what they say."

"But seriously, how could they believe that I mocked your injury?" 

Marc's voice wavers at the end of the sentence and the shakiness doesn't go unnoticed.

It hurts, how people who know nothing about him can form such opinions, not being able to see the things playing behind the scenes, when there’s only the two of them, him and Valentino, like now, in an embrace that means more than any twitter message could ever do. He’s tired of the countless accusations, of having to watch his every move and step, and even when he does, there’s always someone ready to make a scandal out of something so innocent as a photo. A regular photo from training he had planned a week before Valentino’s injury happened.

Sometimes, Marc wishes he could be just a regular person, not under the scrutiny of people who interpret every event, his every action and move to fit their vision, not even trying to see how things really are. Sometimes, he thinks if he hadn’t loved bikes so much, he’d have never decided to go that way. If not for the love of bikes and now Valentino, too.

Pulling him closer, Valentino presses a kiss to his forehead, hoping to bring him at least a little comfort. "I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault, Vale."

"But they're my fans."

If they could be even called that. He thought they were over it, the war between them ending in favour of peace, of kisses and sleepless nights spent between wrinkled sheets, with hot touch and breathy moans. And Valentino hoped that people would be okay with them, too, the multiple handshakes they shared a proof of how they relationship changed, but at the same time not showing just how far the improvement went. 

"I'm sorry. I wanted to comfort you and in the end you ended comforting me. You just had a surgery and here I am, whining about myself."

“Think of it that way. With a broken leg, I won’t be able to run away from you.” Valentino waves his eyebrows suggestively. "Seriously, though. That's fine. I'm already happier now that you're here with me. That's enough. And at least for a few hours you can be my personal nurse, helping me go back to health quicker."

The dirty smirk finally brings a laugh out of Marc, eyes crinkling, mouth stretching to show a row of perfectly white teeth. "I'm afraid what you have in mind will have to wait at least until you leave the hospital." 

"Well, I tried. But I can get a kiss, no?" Valentino asks, already lowering his lips to meet Marc's.

It's short and more sweet that passionate, but it's enough for him to forget about the pain, about the wound on his leg, about the world. Marc's always been good at that, making him forget about things, those important and those not so much, something Valentino didn't know he wanted before he actually got it. 

“If they let me out in time, I’ll be in Misano. As a spectator, at least. Maybe you’d like to visit my hotel room?”

“Sure,” Marc laughs again, amused by the suggestion. Nice. That would be nice. 

It's quiet for a moment, both of them busy cuddling into each other, revealing in the warmth their closeness brings. Those kind of times, quiet little bits, they don’t get them often. It’s not possible to get them often with the type of life they both live, but that’s what makes them so precious, that’s why they treasure them so much. Peace and quite, concepts so foreign in their field of job.

Valentino thinks maybe it’s okay, maybe Marc is better now, but then, he notices another little frown on Marc's face, something he can't help hating. 

"Bambino, believe me, I know it's difficult. I know. But I also know you wouldn't rub an injury in my face. Or anyone's face, for the matter." He cups Marc's cheek in his hands, losing the teasing tone for something more serious again. "I know you’re not that kind of person and I only care about you, not about them."

Marc still doesn't look fully convinced.

Mind working intensively, Valentino tires to think of something to say, to do. To make it better. And it strikes him, something so crazy it's probably one of the most risky things he's ever done in his life, the outcome definitely will have huge effects, but it feels more than right. It’s the right decision, he is sure of that. 

"I have an idea," he says, looking for eye contact. "I know we talked about it only briefly, but you said you were okay with being out sometime in the future. That still stands?" 

Marc nods, confused as to where this conversation is going. "Yeah. But what do you want to do?"

"Give me the phone."

Marc obliges, reaching for the device laying on the cabinet on his left, gives it to Valentino, still not understanding.

It's confusing, Valentino's request not making much sense, but Marc's question remains unanswered, spoken into a void. He waits for what happens next, heart beating slightly faster than its regular rhythm, anticipation running through his veins, breathing speeding. Somehow, it feels like something big is about to happen. 

Unlocking the phone, Valentino opens the camera app, switches to the front view, positions it to catch them both in the frame.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I want to show them just how wrong they are about you. Only if you're okay with that, of course."

For a second Marc wonders. The consequences will be huge, they will not only be the first openly gay riders, but also the first riders to have a relationship with each other out in the open and that sounds scary, the backlash it will most likely cause. He can’t imagine the shitstorm it will trigger, definitely a bigger one than the photo he had posted did. It’s a huge risk and he ponders, if turning both of their lives upside down is worth it. Thinks it through.

But then he looks at Valentino, the sincerity and determination reflected in his eyes and in that exact moment Marc knows. It's when he makes the decision. 

"Let's do this." 

He leans in, places a kiss on Valentino's cheek, wraps arms around his neck. Hears the shutter click. 

The image appears on the screen, showing how close they are. It's a really nice photo, too, despite the hospital attire Valentino looks really handsome, smiling wide, the little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes appearing, even the dark circles not making a change. Marc might save it, download it from one of the social media sites, and perhaps even use it as a lock screen, since from now on they won't have to hide from the world, he won’t have to worry about anyone seeing his phone anymore.

He notices how Valentino opens twitter, attaches the photo, types the caption to go with it. _With that kind of company I’ll recover quickly for sure_ it says and Marc snorts, the grin spreading wide not only on his but also on Valentino’s face. 

Consequences be damned, Valentino presses post, sending the photo for the whole world to see.

And somehow, they both feel the weight fall from their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty upset at the moment, I had to get this out. I can't believe how some people can be happy Vale got injured, how people can believe Marc's mocking that injury, it's unbelievable...
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading <3


	5. Jorge/Dovi [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorge meets Andrea's daughter for the first time

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why? Jorge, are you scared of a little girl?" Andrea’s tone might be joking, a hint of amusement laced in with the words, but Jorge doesn’t feel like laughing at all. 

It’s not the best time to have this conversation, it’s way too late, they’re already on the way to Andrea's house, their destination maybe half an hour away. They should’ve talked about it earlier, discuss everything properly, but during the race weekend, Ducati’s home GP, there was no time or place for that, not one peaceful moment when they were alone, without all those people fussing over them. 

He tugs at the seatbelt, staring through the window at the various trees they’re currently passing by, avoids looking at Andrea. "I'm not scared. It's just...I'm not good with kids, you know? I don't know what to do with them."

Jorge knows how he looks. How he sounds. That he needs time to warm up to someone and that usually people need time to warm up to him, too, the first impression he gives perhaps not the best and that not everyone is willing to spare that time to see the person hiding behind the somewhat cold exterior. He’s been called arrogant enough times. And with children it’s even worse than with adults, with how observant they are and how quick they make judgements, with one mistake being enough for them to write a person off without even trying to appear nice. And while he appreciates the honesty more than anything, prefers it over people being insincerely nice to him, he can’t stand the thought of this happening with Andrea's daughter. 

" You don’t need to do anything special with her. She's not an infant, you won't have to change the diapers. And I thought you were okay with this, you knew I had a daughter."

That’s not what he meant, not at all, and the frustration of not being able to express himself clearly starts showing on Jorge’s face. "I am okay with you having a daughter! Of course I am.” _I really am. It’s me who is the problem, not her._ “But I'm not the most likeable person, especially when it comes to kids." 

"I like you enough to introduce you to my daughter. I think that makes you pretty likeable." 

Andrea's hand lets go of the steering wheel for a moment, lands on Jorge's knee. The squeeze, supposed to bring comfort, works but only a little bit, not able to ease the nerves eating him, mind running with all the possible things that could go wrong. Sara could hate him. She could think he's stealing her father. Maybe she isn't okay with her parents no longer being together. Or she's okay with them not being a couple anymore, but she's not okay with her dad dating another man. There's so much that could go wrong, not to mention that Jorge has no idea how to approach a little girl, what to talk about, ask her about school or something? 

He shouldn't have agreed to meet her, not yet, but Andrea seemed so hopeful, Jorge couldn't tell him no. 

"Nice to know." 

Jorge appreciates the reassurance, he really does, but it's not easy. He's been through the whole meeting the parents of your partner thing, that he could do, but it's never been a child. 

"She likes bikes. You could talk about it."

"She does?"

"Mhm. As long as you don't get into too much detail, it'll be fine," Andrea confirms, giving him a quick glance, before he looks back at the road. 

Bikes sound good. Something familiar, something he knows. But he can't imagine discussing racing lines and tyre choices with an eight year old, he'd have to think of something more age appropriate, but he doesn't know what's appropriate and what isn't. It's not easy. 

To be honest, Jorge never expected to end where he is now. With a teammate he can cheer on, with a teammate he genuinely likes and who likes him back, falling in love with the person occupying the other side of the garage. How different Ducati would be to Yamaha, to what he's known through all of his career in MotoGP. He didn't know this, them, could ever be possible. 

So this, being invited to Andrea’s, or rather Sara’s and Andrea’s, house does feel rather special. 

The rest of the ride is mostly quiet, Andrea telling a joke from time to time to distract him and Jorge nodding, not really focused on the words. They’re almost there, it only takes two more turns before the car stops in front of a house, an inconspicuous one, but far enough from the nearest neighbours, giving the necessary privacy. 

Andrea turns to him, taking the key out of the ignition, that same supportive look still on his face. 

"We're here."

They get out the car, Jorge not without problems, struggling to unfasten the seatbelt, needing a few attempts before he's free from it, his palms already sweating. 

He sees some movement in one of the windows, assumes it was Sara looking out for their arrival, and what so far was just a possibility, now becomes very real. He's very grateful when Andrea catches his hand, laces their fingers and tries to be encouraging, the smile never leaving his face, and Jorge tries to reciprocate it, but his version is faint and pale in comparison.

Before they walk it, right in front of the entrance to the house, Andrea gives his hand another squeeze. “She doesn’t bite, really.”

Then, the door opens, giving way after he puts pressure on the handle, and when they're finally inside, Jorge sees a small head peaking out from behind one of the walls. 

He waves at her, trying to look both less intimidating and less intimidated than he is in fact, waiting. She blinks a few times, staring at him, as if deciding if it's safe to go out of the hiding, if he’s a threat or not, but then, he hears soft steps and suddenly she's standing right before him.

"Hi, I'm Jorge," he says, almost forgetting he should speak Italian, not Spanish. 

Sara’s resemblance to Andrea is undeniable, Jorge can tell exactly which features she inherited from her father, small things he’s noticed after so much time spent on staring at Andrea, and although he’s seen her photos multiple times before, it’s all the more striking when she’s standing right in front of him. 

She looks looks him up and down, assessing, stretches out a small hand for him to shake. "Dad's boyfriend, I know. I’m Sara. Wanna play ps4 with me?" 

"Okay," Jorge answers uncertainly, looking at Andrea for confirmation. _What do I do? Should I play with her? Let her win or just battle like I’d do with anyone else?_ These are the questions his mind is full of, but he only gets a nod and a smile in return, along with the 'be careful, she'll beat you', before Sara grabs his hand and drags him further inside the house, talking about some games the whole time. 

Surprisingly, it’s not as difficult as he expected.

Sara really does like bikes and they even end up playing MotoGP 2017, Jorge as himself, Sara as her father. It gets competitive, they both fight for the victory and he gets much more into it than he thought he would and perhaps losing against an eight year old shouldn’t feel good, but when she flashes him a wide smile, mischief written all over her face, the corners of his lips go upwards on their own, Andrea catching them grinning at each other.

They spend the whole afternoon like that and Jorge finds out that talking to her is not that hard of a task and he isn’t that bad at making conversations with someone so much younger than him.

When at the end of the day the three of them end up on the sofa together, Andrea on his left side, eyes glued to the TV and a hand resting on Jorge’s knee the whole time, and Sara on the other, snuggled into his side after having fallen asleep half an hour ago or so, Jorge feels at peace. Relaxed. Much better than in his own lonely house where most of the time he only has silence as the company and a cleaner visiting from time to time. Here, it doesn’t feel empty, like something’s lacking. 

“Wasn’t so bad, hmm?” Andrea whispers into his ear, the breath tickling his ear.

“Yeah, not so bad.” 

“Maybe you could come over more often? Both I and she –” Andrea points in Sara’s direction, “we would be happy with that.” 

Jorge thinks about it, going back to this, returning not only to Andrea but also to Sara, about how he’s felt during the whole day in their company, how they welcomed him into their lives with open arms and warm smiles. 

And this what he has now doesn’t feel like just a house but a home, instead. 

“I could and I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading <3


	6. Marc/Dani [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dani never cared about the umbrella girls. Or the obligatory introduction of the umbrella boys. That is, until he saw his own umbrella boy.

Frankly speaking, Dani never cared about the umbrella girls.

He doesn’t understand what’s the huge hype now with the obligatory introduction of umbrella boys along with the umbrella girls and some riders’ protest, each of them falling deaf on Dorna’s ears. Equality, that much he gets, but why those people are needed in the first place, he misses the point. When he hears he’s one of those selected to be shielded from the sun by a man, Dani shrugs, acknowledging the news but nothing more than that. The fact doesn’t make any difference for him as he only focuses on riding and not the surrounding things that go along with it.

And it is like that, at least until he makes it to the grid and actually sees his umbrella boy.

Dani expected just that, a boy, or rather a young man, not this Greek god who’s smiling at him blindingly, stepping from one foot to another, unable to stay still it seems, giving a wave when he sees Dani approaching. 

He stops the bike in the right place, second row for him today, and hops off of the machine, can’t resist taking a better look at the guy.

Up close, he’s even more gorgeous, the lines of his face forming an image Dani’s unable to avert his gaze from.

He’s so young, too, looks barely over twenty, only recently having grown out of the teenage awkwardness into those muscles barely hidden by the tight t-shirt, Dani appreciating the choice of clothing for the umbrella wielders for the first time in his career. 

At the guy is staring at him like he’s another Wonder of the World. 

“Hi, I’m Marc. I’m a huge fan and I watch all the races and you’re so amazing...” 

There’s an endless string of compliments flowing from the guy’s, Marc’s, mouth, how good Dani’s riding is and how he should’ve gotten that title years ago, and Dani has to butt in to stop that because it doesn’t seem likely to end soon. The guys pauses, rubs at the back of his neck, nervous laugh escaping and the pink tint on Marc’s cheeks only adds to what Dani already thought was the embodiment of perfection. 

After giving Marc that autograph and even posing properly to fit into the camera frame, he gets back on the bike, a shade appearing over his head a second later. 

The last minutes before the start of the race are torturous. He can’t focus properly, eyes sliding over Marc’s body against his will, brain conjuring images that could make a person blush, almost make him blush, and the grip he has on the bottle of his drink too strong. To make matters worse, Marc moves constantly, the clothes shifting over his muscles, over the ass clad in the tightest shorts Dani’s ever seen and if it goes on like, he’s not sure he’ll be able to ride the bike without putting someone in danger. Himself or any other rider. 

Somehow, he manages. Gets a podium even.

The celebrations and the champagne rushing to his head free him of bright smiles and adoring gazes, of lips too soft and inviting not to nibble on them. 

He returns to the paddock late, the sky is already dark and there’s barely anyone out there. He is ready to go in his motorhome, one foot already on the steps, when Marc catches him, panting as if he’s run the whole way here from wherever he was before.

“Hi, Dani. Can I have a second?”

Nodding, Dani’s back on the ground again, the two of them now standing in front of each other.

There’s something wrong with Marc. He’s fidgeting, shifting weight from one foot to another, his fingers are wound tightly into the material of his shirt and if he keeps on gnawing onto his bottom lip like that, the blood will make an appearance soon. What Dani sees now is nothing like what he saw a few hours earlier, before the start of the race.

“What’s wrong?” He tries to be encouraging, he really does. Marc seems to be having a problem, but when a tongue comes out of that pretty mouth, traces the upper lip first and then the bottom one, he forgets what he asked in the first place, mind blank.

Marc lifts his sight from the ground, takes a step forward. There’s very little space between them now, ten, maybe fifteen centimetres, breaths mingling together, and Dani looks up just in time to see a change of expression on Marc’s face, something that hasn’t been there before showing up. 

“I’m really sorry. You’ll probably punch me and hate me, but I have to do this.” 

And suddenly, Marc’s lips are on his own.

For a second Dani wonders if he hasn’t fallen asleep somewhere, the tiredness from the race finally catching up with him, because this can’t be happening, Marc kissing him, trying to lick into his mouth, asking for permission Dani doesn’t know when he grants. It’s surreal, just like the hands on his lower back, burning even through the fabric of his shirt, Marc pulling him closer, their bodies pressing against each other now.

“Not here,” he mumbles, dissatisfied with having to break that kiss. And Marc’s unhappy with the interruption, too, if the low whine he releases can be a hint. 

They end up in his motorhome, already halfway undressed before they even make it to the bed, falling on the soft sheets. Marc looks up at him from under those long eyelashes, eyes so dark Dani can’t even tell what their true colour is, and the flush on the cheeks, mouth open and inviting, make him stop for a moment, marvelling at the beauty laying beneath him. How such a gorgeous human is a fan of him, allows him to kiss and touch and seems to want it just as much, if not more, is beyond him. 

It should be so wrong, but feels so good. 

“Dani, please,” Marc begs, tugging on the hem of his pants, but the end of that sentence is almost unintelligible as it turns into a drawn out moan when Dani twists his nipple and sinks teeth into his neck. 

“Please what?”

He enjoys it, teasing Marc, observing the growing frustration and the growing bulge, those tight-fitting shorts from Marc’s appearance on the grid not leaving much for imagination. And Dani likes it, how Marc would like to do something, but isn’t sure if he can. Isn’t sure if Dani’s okay with him making a move or not. The unvoiced question, if he can rip their clothes off or if Dani doesn’t want him to do so just yet. 

It’s quite a sight.

“Undress me,” Marc manages to breathe out, words already shaky. “Or undress yourself. Us both. I don’t know. I just want to feel you.” 

“Okay.”

Unbuttoning the shorts and pulling on the fly, he has the garment off of Marc’s legs in an instant, now only the underwear, _motorbikes printed on it,_ left. He can’t help the grin from spreading, Marc’s cheeks now pink not only with arousal but some embarrassment, too. “Ugh, this is awkward,” Marc tries to laugh it off, and Dani thinks he will be hearing that _jajaja_ in his dreams for a long time.

“That’s pretty cute, actually.”

“I’d rather be called sexy, not cute,” Marc says, but the pout that goes along with it is definitely cute, not sexy. 

The printed motorbikes land on the floor among the pile of other pieces of clothing, his own, too, Marc now sprawled under Dani’s hands caressing his chest, belly, the inner side of his thighs, purposefully missing the cock begging for attention. Marc writhes, the sheet under him getting crumpled, but no words come from his mouth, only panting and loud moans whenever Dani brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. 

Dani thinks he could listen to that forever. 

He stops for a moment to take the sight beneath him and he’s surprised when Marc flips them over, now Dani laying underneath, Marc spread over his body, their cocks rubbing when Marc starts moving his hips a little. 

His fingers dig into Marc’s ass on their own, probably leaving red imprints, but he doesn’t care and he doubts Marc cares, either. The ferocity Marc presses their lips together with suggests he doesn’t. 

“You know, I really like bikes. I’m pretty good at riding.”

The sentence, supposedly innocent, shouldn’t mean anything to him, but Marc’s tone has Dani’s throat dry and tight, all the blood flowing from the brain to his crotch and he needs a moment to remember how to speak or even move, for that matter.

“Show me,” he croaks, but it’s more of a question than the order he intended it to be. This guy is doing things to him, things he shouldn’t be thinking or feeling, not for a fan with hero worship written all over his face, but Dani is helpless against Marc’s charm, how he carries himself, and slowly he realizes the resistance is futile, not good for either of them.

Marc straddles him, legs spread and each knee touching Dani’s hip, their crotches against each other when Marc leans to nip gently at the side of his neck, then licking the spot to soothe the irritation, whispers into his ear. “Do you have anything?”

“The drawer.”

He points roughly in the right direction, not taking his eyes off from the muscled torso even for a second.

Like through a haze, mind already clouded with lust, he hears the drawer opening and then closing, shuddering in anticipation, cock twitching and hips bucking up when Marc’s fingers move over the bottle and he has to bite on his tongue no to say his thoughts out loud. _I wish your fingers would slide over my cock like that._

And Marc surprises him once more, for the nth time during that night and maybe he should start getting used to that. Because Marc couldn’t open the lid like any other person, no, he has to open his mouth and bite on it, using teeth to unscrew the plastic, because the regular way is too conventional. And the guy is anything but. 

He feels his hand being grasped in Marc’s hold, some of the lube spilled on it, before Marc closes the bottle, this time the normal way. It’s thrown aside somewhere at the edge of the bed and up until this point Dani didn’t find slicking his fingers very erotic, unlike the things he’d do with those fingers later, but after the view he gets now, he might change his mind. His index finger, the one in right hand, is enclosed in Marc’s palm now, the grip tight but not painful, the hold moving upwards and downwards slowly, each move deliberate and he can’t stop the images from flooding his mind. Marc’s grasp on his cock moving like that, changing the pace, once slower, once faster, the same look of concentration and awe on Marc’s face that has Dani’s toes squirming and first drops of precome appearing, muscles tensing and impatience growing stronger with each passing second. 

The images will haunt him for a long while.

Repeating the procedure with next two fingers, Marc has him all slicked up. 

Dani flexes the digits, some of the lube dropping from them onto his stomach. Marc continues to stare at him as if he doesn’t believe it’s truly happening and to be honest, a small part of Dani’s mind is also sure it’s just vivid fantasy. 

Then, Marc takes a hold of his hand, guides it behind him until Dani’s fingers are at the his hole, Marc swallowing, losing some of his confidence for the first time this night. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Dani says, clear on carrying on only if both of them are sure.

He doesn’t want anything more than for Marc to be comfortable with this, however much they are doing. 

A shock passing on the flushed face and apologies spilling from those sinful lips, Marc panics a little, voice frantic. “I’m so sorry! Please tell me what I did wrong, I can fix it, do whatever you want.” He’s babbling right now, too many words, and spoken too fast, and Dani has to press a hand to the his cheek to even get their eyes to meet.

“It’s not only about what I want, it’s also about what you want. If you don’t want it, we can just talk about bikes or something. It’s alright.”

He hopes his words will get to Marc’s head.

Marc nods, straightens his back, places hands on Dani’s chest for support. With a newfound determination, he confesses something that has Dani startled, eyes widening. “I want it. I’ve been fantasising about this since I was fifteen.” 

“Oh.”

_Fifteen. Fuck._

He feels light-headed, the world around him suddenly starting to spin. Marc told him he was twenty-four before, so that would mean whole nine years of those fantasies haunting his mind. And it probably shouldn’t, but that declaration makes Dani strangely proud, that he’s managed to hold someone’s interest for so long, a feat that never happened with any of the people he previously was in a relationship with. 

“Good oh or bad oh?” Marc scratches at his own skin, nails sinking into his tights, without a doubt leaving crescent-shaped marks. 

Dani comes back to his senses. Realizes he should say something before Marc panic even more. “Surprised oh. But no, definitely not a bad one.” 

“So...we get on with it?”

It’s such an absurd question to ask, Dani thinks, as it’s pretty obvious that he wouldn’t want to do anything else with the most gorgeous man sat on his lap. He pulls Marc closer, fingers catching on his hair as Dani pleads for entrance to his mouth, wants that hesitation to be gone from Marc’s voice. Wants him to know he craves it just as much.

Marc takes it upon himself to get Dani’s fingers where he wants them, letting them breach him and enter, but not interfering with how fast and how many, something Dani knows exactly how to do. 

He marvels as how responsive Marc is, every feeling and sensation reflected in the way his eyelids close, mouth opens, muscles tense. In how his thighs already start to shake with an effort to keep his weight when Dani has three digits inside him, aiming for that spot that makes Marc release a low whine, his hips bucking. 

When Marc catches his wrist, pants another plea, there’s nothing he can do but remove his fingers and wait.

There is a sound of teeth tearing into the foil as Marc takes the condom out and while Dani always found that kind of things rather funny, not sexy, somehow this guy makes him want to throw another packet or two at him. 

He needs to shut his eyelids tightly, fists catching onto the sheets as Marc slicks him first and then sinks on his cock, for everything not to be over in that moment. 

They’re both lost in the sensations, moving in common rhythm, Marc’s head falling backwards when Dani tugs on his cock in tune with the way Marc rolls his hips. It’s almost too much, all his senses going haywire, skin burning, nerves tingling with every shared touch and Marc doesn’t seem to be doing much better, if the nails digging into Dani’s arms can tell a thing. 

“Dani...” 

Goodness, how he loves his name falling from those lips.

“Shh, I’m close, too,” he mutters, doesn’t know how he manages to get that sentence out. 

It’s not long before they’re both coming, Marc first and then him a little later, muscles clenching, names echoing in room in low cries. Heads spinning and warmth spreading all over their bodies. Marc collapses on top of him, not caring about the mess on their stomachs and he can’t help sliding an arm around the boy’s waist, holding him close, their lips meeting.

His mind is getting drowsy rather fast, eyes almost closing when he feels the body above him start stirring, getting up. 

“I thought you liked me,” Dani accuses, the playfulness clearly distinguishable in his voice.

Marc apparently doesn’t get it. With the current expression he reminds Dani of a deer caught in the headlights. Confused. Dazed. Not fully understanding what is happening and why. Those frantic words are there back again, syllables getting glued together, his fuzzy mind having some problems with recognizing the meanings. 

“I do! I like you a lot, Dani!” Marc exclaims, a little louder than necessary. 

“So why are you trying to run away? Was I that bad?”

Maybe he enjoys teasing Marc a little bit too much. Maybe he shouldn’t. But that flush and those little bites left of the lips are too adorable. And while he certainly agrees that Marc can be sexy, like he wants to be viewed, there’s also a lot of cuteness to him that he doesn’t seem aware of. Like right now.

There’s another protest coming his way. “No, obviously not!”

“So lie down again, there’s still a lot of time left till the morning.” Dani’s head falls back on the pillow, body too tired for anything else. “You’ll be at the next Spanish race, right?”

He almost laughs when Marc’s eyes widen, the implication hitting him, and Dani suddenly has arms around his neck and a head laying on his chest, muffled _yes_ reaching his ears. 

And he may start appreciating the idea of the umbrella boys more from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No plot to be found here, but I just turned a year older, so I feel excused :P And if Marc ever gets bored with racing, he totally should be Dani's umbrella boy. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	7. Alex Marquez/Luca Marini [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex knows from the beginning that this will never work. They never will. Yet, he dives in, hoping that against all odds they will be the ones to fool destiny.

Alex knows from the beginning that this will never work. They never will. There are too many obstacles, too many problems they’ll have to face, the solutions neither of them is aware of. Yet, he dives in, hoping that against all odds they will be the ones to fool destiny. Emerge victorious from the battle against the world, even with no arms and only having each other to hold onto. 

The worst part is that the fault doesn’t lay within either of them. He doesn’t remember ever getting along with someone so well, not even Marc, and he loves his brother more than anything, but sometimes there are instances where Marc doesn’t understand. Can’t put himself in Alex’s shoes, because he’s perfect and whatever he’s doing, he’s turning into gold. An alien and not a mere mortal, like Alex himself. And Luca understands. Because he’s like Alex. Almost the same.

But their similarity loses importance when it comes to facing the world.

It’s the society that has a problem with them. With them being men, riders, little brothers of the legends of the sport they both love so much and yet, a sport that doesn’t let them be free. 

Sometimes, Alex thinks it isn’t even their sport. It’s Marc’s and Valentino's, them achieving what was thought not to be possible, conquering records and captivating hearts, and him and Luca are just an addition, not significant enough to really make a change. And this lack of significance is what brought them together in the first place. 

What started as cheering each other up after being outshone by older brothers, once again not meeting the expectations and demands put onto them even though neither asked for that, turned into something that makes Alex warm and fuzzy inside. Wanted. Needed. And, he dares to say, loved. 

The shy smiles Luca sends his way, that first kiss, stolen behind his and Marc’s motorhome (it’s a wonder they didn’t get caught, really), all those times when he felt like maybe it wasn’t worth it, maybe racing wasn’t for him, when Luca got him back on the right track – Alex gets nauseous thinking about throwing all of that away. 

He can’t help cursing, profanities leaving his lips. _Why do you think this is wrong? Why we can’t love each other and not be stoned for being born this way and finding solace in each other? Why we can't be happy? World, why?_

He has no answers to that.

But he’s well aware that the secret getting out would affect much more than just their lives.

How the press, the people wouldn’t prey only on them, but also on their families. Try to tear them apart. Rip into pieces and in the name of what? A first page story? A pay rise for one of those so called journalists, who, at times, resemble hyenas more than people? The satisfaction of inflicting pain with words so vile his stomach twists into knots and bile rises in his throat?

And he wouldn’t want anyone to go through this, those images of what happened to Marc before always at the back of his mind. 

There’s no other way to prevent it, he knows what he has to do. 

So he sends Luca that text, _coast clear,_ like he does whenever a race day comes to end and they’re free from the obligations and worries and can be just Luca and Alex, not _little brothers of…,_ at least for a few hours. Then, he gets a response a minute later, that heart emoji making his own heart hammer, rhythm speeding up with what he’s about to do. 

_Throwing a major part of my life away._

The waiting is horrible.

During the next minutes Alex can’t sit still. He’s pacing from one corner of the room to another, once and again, going in circles like on the track. Only there’s no chequered flag, no trophy or the taste of champagne on his tongue awaiting at the end of the journey, but rather broken hearts and salt dripping down his cheeks, creating entirely different tracks. 

There’s no way he could prepare for this, it’s not possible. 

That whisky bottle he saw in the minibar looks especially tempting right now. He considers drinking a glass or maybe three, the liquid courage supposedly helping. But decides against the idea. It sounds not only weak, but also so disrespectful, it would be hitting a new low and Alex can’t do that, not to Luca. It’s something he has to face on his own, without any kind of ‘help’. 

And when he finally hears knocking, when Luca appears in the doorway of one of those rented hotel rooms they’ve been sharing for the past half of a year, Alex almost changes his mind, resolve melting in an instant. 

He moves aside, makes space, but doesn’t respond when Luca’s lips search his in a greeting. It’s the first signal, the first clue that something is not the same as it used to be. The first of many. He has to keep himself from running his hands over Luca’s face, his body, from wrapping arms around Luca’s waist tightly and telling him _everything will be alright._ Because it won’t, not for them. 

It takes time before Alex says the dreaded _we need to talk._ Has to convince himself to actually get those words out of his too tight throat, remind himself of the reasons why he’s doing this. Why he has to do this. 

Judging by the frown on his face, Luca already has an idea that it won’t be a pleasant conversation.

They sit down and the distance between them is bigger than usual. Not only the physical one, though, normally he’d have Luca on his lap or at least the sides of their thighs touching, fingers interlaced, not this, another person being able to squeeze between them. Emotionally, they also feel further apart, that one sentence enough to cause a gap between them. _Good. Just what I need to do._

Luca’s silent, waiting for him to say something, toying with his phone while Alex observes, preparing for what he has to do. 

Having rehearsed that conversation a thousand times doesn’t help, not when Luca’s shoulders hunch, his face tensing in a way Alex already recognizes. Seen it before. Hoped to never see it again, to never be the reason of it. 

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, no words coming out. There’s a bottle of water on the table, he pours himself and Luca some, to do something, to have his hands busy, but he almost spills it and both glasses remain untouched. All his focus goes to stopping the clenching of his stomach, not to spill its content on the floor, around their feet. The cramps are getting worse and worse, the retching is almost there and he needs to say it, now, immediately, or else he won’t be able to do it at all. 

“We need to break up. It’s not working anymore,” Alex states. Hopes it sounds more convincing than it feels – which is not at all. 

_There it is, out now._

He has to remind himself how to breathe properly, _inhale, exhale,_ not to gasp on air, because it feels like there’s none, like those two sentences sucked out all the oxygen from the room. There’s no way he’d dare to turn his head left, to see Luca’s reaction. He doesn’t have the courage to do so, afraid of what is there, afraid of the damage he probably inflicted. _It may be cowardly, but a coward is exactly who I am._

Anger. Screams. That’s what he expects. That’s what he hopes for, for Luca to lash out at him, curse him and hate him and then forget about him altogether, as fast as possible. To become a faded memory, washed out by time and never brought back. It’s something he could deal with, at least. Something he could live with. He prays for Luca to react like that, to take it all out on him, because he isn’t sure if he could deal with hurt and disappointment. Dreads it like no other thing. 

So when he hears that _Why?,_ Luca’s voice wet and strained, catching in his throat, Alex has to turn, bites on the inside of his cheek, gnawing at the flesh not to let the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes out. _Please, don’t look at me like that. Don’t, Luca. Don’t. Please, I beg you or I won’t be able to do what has to be done._

He gathers the last bits of his strength, those that haven’t left him yet, and opens mouth, fast, before he can decide against it. 

“Because I don’t want you anymore.”

And Alex hates himself more than ever after telling that lie, but it’s for the better. That’s what he keeps repeating to himself when later that day he’s laying in the sheets, the duvet pulled over his head to hide the swelling of his face and the redness of his eyes.

_It’s for the better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...or is it really for the better? I'm sure Luca would disagree. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	8. Jorge/Marc [M]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Maybe one day I’ll love you like I love him._

“We’re both fucked up,” Jorge says, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s black and bitter, the taste unpleasant on his tongue. It burns slightly, the temperature too high, but in this moment it is exactly what he needs. 

He’s shivering a little bit, body bare aside from the crumpled boxers. Marc’s, not his, he found them in one of the drawers, along with the rope he noted to bring up later. It’s surprisingly chilly considering the season, the weather wet and windy, unusual for Andorra; he’ll have to tell Marc to turn the heating up. 

Marc slips into the kitchen almost soundlessly. His bare feet ( _bare like the rest of his body,_ Jorge notes, eyes roaming over it) don’t make a noise as he steps slowly, swaying hips to the sides lightly. A low murmur escapes him, a melody Jorge knows, vaguely recognizes, but doesn’t like enough to remember the title. 

When Marc reaches the table, he glues himself to Jorge’s back; his hand wanders over Jorge’s stomach as he nips on the pale neck, sucking and then swirling tongue over reddened skin. The mark will look pretty, they always do. He wonders which scarf Jorge will choose to cover it. Maybe the green one, to go along with the colour of his eyes. It’s soft and accentuates Jorge’s features nicely; Marc likes it. Or maybe he should buy Jorge another one, warmer for the current weather and Marquez red in shade, obligatorily. 

He bites on Jorge’s earlobe and grins when he notices Jorge's chest expanding more rapidly than usual. “Yeah. But instead of being fucked up, I liked being fucked by you last night more,” he whispers in the dirtiest tone he can manage.

Jorge isn't amused, pushes the hand sliding under his boxers away.

He ignores Marc’s pout, the innocent act he knows doesn’t have any sincerity. “Not now.” The hoarseness doesn’t leave his voice even after he takes another sip of his drink. 

Marc pulls the other chair out and falls onto it heavily. “So now we’re going be all depressed and drowning in self-pity?” 

“What’s not to be depressed about? We’re both in love in with fucking Pedrosa and yet we’re here with each other, not with him.” Jorge doesn’t get it how Marc can be so calm about it. Smile. Pretend they don’t share sheets without sharing love, that their hearts don’t belong to an entirely different person. 

Dani’s always there, between them, an unmovable presence at the back of their heads and in the middle of their hearts. 

_It was better when we were enemies._

He remembers well when he made that joke about getting married to Dani. How back then it seemed like a very slim, but possibility. An amusing thought he didn’t know would turn into a wish some time later, the images of rings glistening on their fingers coming to him daily. And how now it is only a dream that would never come true. 

They’re pathetic. Both him and Marc. World champions, could have whoever they wanted and yet pining over the same man who doesn’t want either of them.

Marc’s thumb brushes over Jorge’s bottom lip, pulling on it lightly.“I liked it better when it was my name leaving these lips, not his.” He bites, tongue slipping into Jorge’s mouth, making himself welcome in the place he knows so well. 

He gets up, pushing weight on his palms, and straddles Jorge’s lap, uncaring about the protests. 

“At least you don’t have to share the box with him,” Marc points out, wrapping limbs around Jorge. “That’s a lot, believe me.” 

Dani’s constant presence on the other side of the garage is both a bliss and a torture. Being able to look but not able to touch. Receiving the smiles and knowing they’re nothing more than friendly. Marc’s caught himself thinking about transferring to another team on more than one occasion, but he knows as long as Honda wants him, he won’t. Can’t. 

A flash of what might be sympathy appears on Jorge’s face. 

He limps in Marc’s hold and lets the younger do as he pleases. The teasing, touches too light for his liking, are getting on his nerves, but if that’s what Marc wants, he lets it slide.

(It’s not something he’d ever admit, going along with Marc’s wishes against his own.)

“Tough luck,” he mutters, trying the asshole route. Knowing he sounds nothing like it. Marc must know, too; his gaze holds that same mix of pity and sympathy Jorge sent him earlier. 

Marc ignores the words, busying his mouth with Jorge’s lips, effectively shutting him up. 

When they break from each other, Jorge’s face scrunches, eyebrow pulling together. “Seriously, why do we even bother?” The grip he has on Marc’s hip strengthens, possibly leaving marks where his fingers dig into sun-kissed skin. 

It’s one of these questions he doesn’t have answers to. 

Marc hates when Jorge gets like this. Philosophical. Deep. Sometimes trying to make things deeper than they really are. He’s not here for that. The only thing he wants is to forget, get laid without thinking about anything else, let the pleasure stifle the feelings he wishes he didn’t have. 

So he does everything in his power to take Jorge’s mind off of Dani. 

And Jorge lets Marc manoeuvrer him back to the bedroom they just came from; pretends that the eyes staring back at him aren’t the wrong shade of brown and that the smell reaching his nostrils isn’t the one Marc advertises with his name. That it’s Dani’s hair he’s tugging on and that the fingers gripping him tightly through the boxers belong to Pedrosa. 

_Fucked up, we both are._

When his back hits the sheets and Marc slides the sole piece of clothing down his legs, scratching on the inner side of his thighs _(no doubt he’ll have red streaks there),_ Jorge surrenders, tired of the fight between his heart and his body. And, begrudgingly, he admits that riding a motorcycle isn’t the only riding Marc’s good at. That his hands aren’t talented only at operating the gas, the clutch and the brake. 

(But perhaps it’s Marc’s tongue Jorge likes the most; the thing that can actually make him forget, even if for a short while.)

In the time they’ve shared, they’ve already managed to map out every sensitive spot, learn every touch that gets a reaction, mewling and moaning. Spines arching and hips bucking, pleading for more. Jorge knows exactly how he needs to angle his hips to have nail marks drawn on his back that don’t fade for a few next days. Knows where to bite and how to tug and how to drive Marc crazy. 

He’s doing just that, moving in the same rhythm as the body laying underneath him. There are some moments, seconds really, when lost in the lust, Jorge forgets who is kissing his jaw and squeezing his ass. 

_It would be so much easier if it were you._

Marc’s gorgeous, always, but especially when his mouths opens in a scream consisting of Jorge’s name. When his guards are down and he isn’t doing unthinkable things on the track and he isn’t playing the funny character the fans love so much, either. And if the circumstances were different, Jorge would’ve swelled with pride for reducing him into this shaky mess, almost crying with the pleasure washing over him. 

But the circumstances aren’t different and when their visions cloud and muscles clench as they find release, when their high is over, both of them share the same thought.

_Maybe one day I’ll love you like I love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something fluffy and without Marc, but this happened. I'm sorry?
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	9. Maverick/Valentino/Jorge [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maverick takes up Valentino's offer.

Maverick can tell they’re surprised when he shows up at Valentino’s door, more nervous than he’s ever been in his life. And half hard, already. 

It took him whole two weeks to make a decision and now that he’s finally standing in front of them, he feels smaller than he’s ever felt before. They send each other a glance, probably thinking how to get rid of him gently and perhaps convince him not to say a thing about what’s happening behind closed door, because really, Maverick can’t even imagine the scandal someone finding out could cause.

“I’m sorry, I’ll better go.” He tries to withdraw, ready to turn back and hide in his own motorhome. 

Valentino has none of it. The smile spreads wide on his face, little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes showing. Maverick gets dragged inside, Valentino’s chatter accompanying him the whole time, but he can’t stop glancing at Jorge. For confirmation. For some clues that Jorge is fine with this, whatever they’re about to do, too. To get an answer, if Maverick’s presence is wanted or at least not unwanted. 

Jorge follows them both, a step behind and silent. Despite trying, Maverick can’t tell what goes on in his head.

Valentino, on the other hand, doesn’t waste time and gets straight to the point. “Okay, do you want to just watch? Or do something with us, too?” He takes a step further; in turn, Maverick takes one backwards. 

“I...I don’t know,” he stutters, words tangling on his tongue. 

He feels so immature compared to them. Like a child who doesn’t know a thing and can’t decide on a thing. _They probably do think I’m a child, even if my date of birth says otherwise._

Maverick doesn’t miss Valentino’s hand sliding from Jorge’s shoulder down his arm to lace their fingers together. Something he’s sure is reassurance, the unspoken question of _Are you really okay with this?_ found in the gesture.

The squeezing Jorge’s hand does is barely visible, but Maverick doesn’t miss it or the rising the corners of Valentino’s mouth do. 

“So how about you just sit somewhere? You’ll be more comfortable this way.” Valentino gestures towards the armchairs and the sofa located in the room, pushing a can of beer into his hand. The metal is cold against Maverick’s skin “Take it, maybe it’ll help you relax.”

Jorge, so far silent, pulls on the edge of his shirt, slowly taking it off; the moment their gazes lock, Maverick’s hands start to shake. He hears Valentino’s chuckle next to his ear, clear amusement, but Jorge doesn’t react to any of that, his shirt landing on the floor. 

It isn’t the first time he’s seeing Jorge’s chest and the muscles spread over his abdomen, strong arms. But it’s the first time Jorge’s half-naked within an arm’s reach and Maverick barely contains the urge to run his hands all over Jorge’s body. 

Valentino’s all over him immediately, lips pressed together and arms wrapped around slim waist. 

Maverick can’t stop staring at Jorge’s mouth opening willingly, letting Valentino’s tongue in. At how their eyelids close as the kiss gets deeper. He follows their hands sliding over lean chests, Valentino’s occasionally teasing at the edge of Jorge’s pants. They do look even more gorgeous when they’re right in front of his eyes, at an arm’s length. There was only one man he thought of as attractive before, their meeting ending with a handjob in the toilet of some club, and now having the two of them so close is overwhelming. That first experience he had is incomparable. 

The sound escaping Jorge’s lips after Valentino pinches one of his nipples, so lewd and not held back in any way, has Maverick shivering, goosebumps all over his skin. 

“He’s so pretty, don’t you think?”

It takes him a moment to realize that yes, Valentino is speaking to him, looking from above Jorge’s shoulder while nibbling on his neck at the same time. Maverick stammers, clearing his throat to gain a few more seconds before talking. “Y-yes. Very.” The planes of Jorge’s back are, but even more so his face, flushed cheeks and glazed eyes that Maverick can admire when Valentino turns them around, basically showing Jorge off. 

In retaliation, Jorge bites on Valentino’s bottom lip, not hard, not strong enough to draw blood, but just enough to get his message across. “Shut up.”

_Are my eyes bad or is Jorge suddenly redder than just a moment ago?_

It’s kind of funny and sweet, he muses, how Jorge doesn’t feel ashamed being watched during something so intimate as sex, but the praise suddenly makes him shy, hiding face between Valentino’s neck and shoulder. But Valentino’s hand on the nape of Jorge’s neck and the kiss placed on the top of his head remind Maverick that’s he’s actually an intruder here, just a witness to their what? Relationship? He thinks they might be in one. 

When Jorge’s fingers land on Valentino’s fly, opening it in one quick move, Maverick wants to do the same exact thing to his own pants. 

He doesn’t know, if they’d be okay with it and he’s not sure he’d be able to voice that question. He adjusts on the armchair he’s sitting on, tries to find a position in which his jeans would push less on his cock, the fabric already too tight. 

“Go ahead, get rid of those pants. Or maybe you’d like some help with that?” Valentino teases, the boxers, obviously tented, the only piece of clothing still covering his body. “What? You’re watching us, maybe we’d like to watch you, too?” 

“Give the poor guy a break.” Jorge smacks him on the back of the head lightly, no malice intended in the gesture. The fondness on his face is unmistakable, Maverick can recognize the expression easily. They might be a little in love with each other, he suspects, their relationship a lot less casual than he initially thought. 

“Seriously though,” Jorge’s now speaking to him again. “Don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Get undressed or leave the clothes on, just watch or join us if you want. We’re okay with that.” Valentino nods in confirmation, arms wrapped around Jorge’s waist and chin resting on his shoulder. 

In a surge of bravery, he drops the pants, the material tangling around one of his ankles, and he has to sit again not to fall and land on the floor. 

They’re looking at him, he can feel their stares and he’s sure it was a whistle what he heard coming from Valentino, Maverick’s cheeks flaming up at that. His hands go to cover his crotch, but he’s sure they’ve already seen the bulge and the damp stain on the fabric of his underwear. 

For some time, they don’t pay any attention to him. Valentino’s too busy sliding hands under Jorge’s boxers, pulling on the waistband, then letting go, grinning in delight as it slaps against Jorge’s skin. He kneads Jorge’s ass, the flesh a perfect fit to his palms, Maverick notes, and Jorge sucks on the Valentino’s neck, digging fingers into his shoulders. 

The marks contrast beautifully against Valentino’s paleness. There’s this thought Maverick has, that there’s some space for another one left. That it could be his own teeth sinking into Valentino’s collarbones and his own tongue tracing over the bruises soothingly.

Finally, he slips fingers under the sole piece of clothing he still has on and wraps them around himself. Can’t hold back any longer.

The moment they fall on the bed, their bodies are no longer hidden by any fabric. Maverick squeezes himself tighter, biting on his lips to stifle all the sounds trying to escape his throat. His eyes roam all over Jorge and Valentino, memorizing every bit of their skin, every mark, every scar, a testament to what they’ve been through to be where they are now. 

“Come here,” Jorge pants, patting the spot on the bed, right next to his left side. It’s large, definitely enough space to fit all three of them, and Maverick crosses the room on shaky legs, sits on the edge of the mattress. 

The fingers running down the curve of his spine, tracing the vertebrae visible through the thin skin stretched over them, belong to Valentino. They’re cool, contrasting with Maverick’s burning body, and form a path from his hairline to the band of his boxers, rubbing the spot above right above it. He shudders under the soft touch, eyelids closing halfway on their own. 

Jorge grabs his chin so that they’re facing each other. Tilts his head slightly, opens mouth and makes no more move. Looking from above his shoulder, Maverick checks with Valentino, if he’s allowed to, if it’s really okay. The wordless _Can I?_ passes between them and he receives a nod in return.

“Go ahead.” Valentino smiles and wets his lips. His eyes are wide open; if Maverick had to choose an adjective to describe his current look, it would be _hungry._

So, Maverick leans in and presses against Jorge. Finds softness, not the chappiness he kind of expected. Jorge has very nice lips, he decides. But an even nicer tongue, moving against his own and licking into Maverick’s mouth, dominant but not forceful. It’s enough to make Maverick’s head swirl as he melts into the kiss, barely registering when Valentino sits behind him and wraps arms around his waist. 

All of Maverick muscles clench under Valentino’s touch, the gentle rubbing on his abdomen and chest. It’s teasing, feather-light and different when compared to how he treats Jorge, but Maverick can’t help but love it this way. And even Jorge breaks the kiss to take a look, hums appreciatively. Likes what he sees. 

Maverick flushes under the stare, even more heat appearing on his neck and cheeks. The embarrassment mixes with some weird pride at being looked at and _Jorge Lorenzo_ enjoying the view.

(From the words Valentino whispers against his neck Maverick concludes he might like it, too.)

To make things better, they kiss above his shoulder and it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. 

He’s done being modest. If they really want him here, like it seems, then okay, he’ll give them even more to look at. He’s past the point of shyness and suppressing his own desires. 

Maverick gets up, shaking off the boxers that are only uncomfortable and not hiding anything, anyway. Valentino uses to opportunity to move, changes his position and pulls Maverick to sit next to him when his body is already bare. 

Then, Valentino’s laying between Jorge’s legs, face just a few centimetres from his cock, Maverick unconsciously leaning forward to get a better view. The anticipation, his heart hammering, it skyrockets the moment Valentino’s mouth opens and wraps around Jorge’s length. 

None of the porn he’d ever seen could prepare Maverick for this. 

His mind goes blank, tuning out everything but them and the feeling of getting closer to release, his movements picking up speed as he flicks a thumb over the tip of his own cock. The sounds of Valentino's mouth mix with Jorge's groans; the sparks go through Maverick's spine every time. And he can't help but admire Valentino's skills. They must be really something since Jorge's almost falling apart at how he's being swallowed whole. 

Suddenly, Valentino rises, propping himself up on the elbows. He stretches one arm and grabs a bottle from the bedside cabinet, opening the cap. 

Maverick stares in fascination as Jorge’s legs fall further apart and Valentino’s slick finger slips between them. His eyes go from Valentino’s hand to Jorge’s face and back again. Maverick can’t decided on what to focus. It’s too much, too hot, his throat is completely dry and his cock is twitching, leaking some more. Jorge’s head falls backwards on the pillow, exposing his throat and the moan he lets out has Maverick move his fist faster. 

Then, the other of Valentino’s hands lays gently on his own. “This okay?” Maverick barely hears it, transfixed on the view of his teammate’s fingers on his length. _I wouldn’t be able to say no even if I wanted to. And I don’t._

“Please,” he moans, not caring that he is, in fact, begging. 

“As you wish.” Valentino obliges and tightens the hold.

And he’s really great at multitasking. Through hazy vision, the pleasure clouding his mind, Maverick notices how Jorge’s hips buck. How he pushes onto Valentino’s fingers, now three disappearing into him rhythmically, and the groan escaping Jorge’s throat is almost enough to make Maverick come. He barely hangs there. 

A moment later, Jorge clasps Valentino's wrist and all movements halt. “That’s enough,” he says, voice even lower than usual. Thrusts the bottle of lube into Valentino’s hand, who has trouble unscrewing the cap with slick fingers. 

“Wait,” Maverick interrupts. He uses all the courage he has to get the next words out. “Let me.”

Slightly confused, Valentino passes the bottle to him and shifts a bit. It’s stressful, being watched by both him and Jorge, and the lube almost slips from Maverick’s hold, but he manages to get it open. And then, to their surprise, pours it on his own digits. 

He encloses Valentino’s cock, prays that he’s doing this right. Hopes that all that jerking off he did when watching them will pay off. “Fuck.” And it’s Jorge who swears first. Because Valentino moans, low and drawn out, mouth occupied with a different sound. Maverick suspects there might be a tiny bit of acting thrown in there, but he appreciates it that there’s encouragement there for him. 

When he lets go, he observes how Valentino buries himself in Jorge fully. Watches the rise and fall of Jorge’s chest and Valentino whispering to him, nipping at the side of his neck delicately. It gave him the shivers even before, but now that he has it right before his eyes, is barely centimetres apart from their joined bodies, Maverick gasps, absolutely overwhelmed. 

It is the best thing he’s seen in his whole life.

They start moving, Valentino pushing in and pulling out and Jorge’s hips bucking to match the rhythm. The sheets get crumpled when Jorge closes fists on them, eyes going wide when Valentino finds the right spot. 

(Maverick’s own eyes are probably even wider.)

When their arms stretch out and wrap around him simultaneously, Maverick only needs a few tugs to spill not only over his hand, but also over theirs. He shudders and he also might’ve screamed, but nothing in his life has ever felt that good. That much. He doesn’t remember ever feeling so light-headed. They get him through the orgasm in short, jerky moves until he’s spent and without any strength left. 

When his heart rate slows, breathing returning to normal, Maverick’s eyes open fully and the view is stunning. This is what he saw before. The synchronised movements, Valentino knowing all the right angles and Jorge knowing how to drive him wild. They seem like such a good match, he’s surprised by all the fights and arguments they had. Secretly hopes it won’t happen again, because they’re too stunning to be anything else than lovers. Too good together. 

When he calms down enough to have some thoughts, even if they might not be rational at this point yet, Maverick gets to Jorge’s chest. Flicks over the nipples hesitantly, particularly sensitive on Jorge, and is utterly fascinated by Valentino’s cock appearing and disappearing and Jorge’s twitching whenever Valentino twists his wrist in the right way. 

Watching Jorge’s shaking thighs and the fingerprints left on Valentino’s ass as they come undone almost in sync will be burned in Maverick’s mind for eternity. He isn’t sure which one of them lets out the loud moan. Could be them. Could be him. But fact that he’s allowed to see them like this, bare bodies and bare emotions, not hidden by the mask they all tend to wear in public, makes him gulp. Maverick doesn’t think he deserves it. Not after having spied on them, watching without their knowledge and permission. But Jorge and Valentino still let him in and being granted this trust, Maverick feels like he’s about to burst. 

And now that everything’s quieted down and somehow even more intimate, all his insecurities are back. 

Jorge’s out cold immediately, wrapped around Valentino’s side, and now there’s only the sound of his soft breathing heard. He looks serene, innocent almost, all the harsh lines are gone from his face. Maverick barely resist the urge to cup his cheek and trace his features, amazed by the beauty so close to him. 

“It was his idea,” Valentino whispers suddenly, stroking the hair on the top of Jorge’s head gently. Careful not to wake him up. Maverick has to bite his own lips not to ask _please, do this to me, too._

“Y-yeah?” 

He can’t stop the shakiness from slipping into his voice, hopes maybe Valentino will ignore it. Brush it off as something not worth mentioning. It really isn’t worth mentioning, just another one of those moments where he feels he could get used to waking up to someone’s smile instead of an unused pillow staring back at him. They usually pass by quickly, too, but this time his traitorous brain supplies him with images of Valentino and Jorge and a thought _they have nice smiles, right?_

“Mhm,” Valentino hums and there’s pure love in the glance he throws at his lover. “And I had nothing against it, as you can see.” 

Maverick needs a few minutes for his breathing to calm and the flush on his cheeks to disappear as he’s laying on the right side of the bed. He wills the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes away, not wanting to break down right now, but wishing so badly to be on the receiving end of a similar gaze. When he’s ready to sit up and go back to his own motorhome, _empty, cold sheets smelling of detergent, not another human being,_ he straightens his spine, beginning to get up 

Valentino’s arm wraps around his stomach, pulling until his back hits the mattress again. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

He doesn’t say anything, a tightness in his throat preventing anything from coming out of his lips. 

_What am I supposed to tell you?_

“I didn’t specify it in the text, but the invitation included staying overnight.” Valentino’s tone is more serious than it’s been through the whole evening and Maverick needs a few seconds to understand the implication, to judge if it isn’t some sort of a joke. 

He gapes, as if not really believing the words he just heard. He shifts a bit, covering himself, the awareness that he’s stark naked hitting. 

“Stop thinking. Sleep now,” Valentino says. Pulls him down so that Maverick’s head lands on his chest, mirroring Jorge’s position on his other side. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” 

The arm is wrapped around him securely, Valentino kissing him gently, before Maverick starts getting drowsy. The tiredness is getting to him, stronger with every passing minute, so for the moment, he lets it go and snuggles up to Valentino. The worries can wait. 

When Maverick’s almost asleep, he feels soft pressure on his forehead, barely there. A minute later he’s dreaming about receiving more goodnight kisses like that one. Maybe getting one from Jorge, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing threesomes is hard. I'd love to hear how I did. Hopefully it's not that bad?
> 
> Thank you for reading and the feedback <3


	10. Jorge/Dani [T]

The door creaks before Jorge’s face appears, peering from behind the wood. A bag from the nearest shop is in one of his hands and a bunch of flowers, bright orange and a species Dani doesn’t recognize, in the other. Jorge turns the key and the lock clicks, giving them a small sense of privacy; as mu as they can get in a hospital. 

Closing the book he’s been reading, Dani offers a quiet greeting. “Hi.”

He turns the desk lamp off, no longer needed. His movements still aren’t fully stable, mind slightly hazy from all of the chemicals he’s been fed, but Jorge’s presence is enough to lift his mood instantly. 

“Hi,” Jorge answers, stepping closer. He takes in the sight of the hospital bed, too familiar for the both of them, and the cast wrapped around Dani’s arm, no less known. “Want a signature on it?” he points to it, amused by Dani’s deadpan stare. 

“No, thanks.” The sarcasm is dripping from the voice, slipping from Dani’s mouth quickly. 

Jorge shrugs, faking disappointment. He opens the bag he’s been holding and takes a bottle out of it, stirring the container, the liquid sloshing inside. “I brought you some milk.” He offers it to Dani, unscrewing the cap. “You didn’t drink enough when you were a kid, that’s why you’re so small and your bones are so fragile.” 

Dani lands him a weak punch to the shoulder with his good arm.

“You’re not funny,” he claims, but his lips spread into a smile, contrasting with the words. “But I can’t drink it either way. Might puke all over the place after those anaesthetics, you should know that.” 

Jorge falls on the chair, the plastic already digging into his back, and puts the groceries on the nearest cabinet. He needs to catch one of the apples trying to escape from the bag, his fingers managing to grip it centimetres above the floor. “I know. That’s why I brought you some other stuff, too.” 

It took almost an hour for him to choose the food that would be a combination of what Dani likes, what would be good for his health and additionally, something their diet regimen allows. He’s probably rummaged through every single shelf, every nook and corner. He had the hood pulled low on his face, but it’s still a small miracle no one recognized him in those shopping alleys. 

Putting the apple back in its place, finally he questions. “How are you feeling?”

Dani grimaces after having heard that question at least a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours.

“Annoyed, mostly,” he sighs. Then, he tries to put the pillow below his head, but Jorge’s faster, already there for him and not missing the chance to stroke hiss hair softly at the same time. “Frustrated. Fed up.”

Tired, too, though he doesn’t voice that one out loud. 

Pulling on the duvet, he buries himself further in the sheets. At least the IV drip connected to the inside of his elbow is hidden this way. He’s always hated those, worst part of every surgery. Considered the amount of injuries he’s suffered from, he should probably be more than used to it by now, but somehow, it doesn’t get better. 

He opens his palm, the one on the healthy arm, lets his fingers splay out. Jorge gets the message. There are digits laced with his own, warm skin, decorated with some scars and corns here and there, squeezing lightly, as if afraid of imposing any hurt. Small comfort, but he’ll take what he can get. 

The thought of Jorge actually wanting to comfort him still seems almost unbelievable at times.

Dani sighs contentedly, allowing himself to relax for a moment. Had someone told him some years ago that it would be Jorge whose presence he would crave in moments like this, he’d laughed and there wouldn’t have been any humour in it at all. Now, he cannot imagine it any other way.

“When do you get out?” 

Jorge returns to stroking his hair gently. Dani leans into the touch automatically. “Tomorrow, if everything is fine,” he says, the drowsiness almost getting the better of him. He knows he shouldn’t sleep, not so soon after the anaesthetics, but the temptation is so strong. 

“Mhm,” Jorge hums in response. He’s silent for a moment, Dani missing the debate playing on his face completely, before the hold he has on Dani’s hand tightens. “Can I take you to my home?”

“Is this the line you use on your one night stands?” Dani snorts. It could be the effect of the medicine they forced into him before slicing his arm open, but Jorge using any kind of pick up lines amuses him to no end. He’s glad Jorge hasn’t tried any on him, because surely, they wouldn’t be where they are now. 

The thing is, there’s no sarcastic response from Jorge, no biting him back, and now, if that’s not a deviation from their norm. “Sure, I can spend the night at yours,” Dani corrects himself quickly. 

Usually, Jorge’s not one to take offence easily, but the hint of doubt has already started to bloom in Dani’s mind. And offending Jorge’s the last think he’d want, but he’s not thinking clearly yet, not fully, and there is a possibility of accidentally doing so. 

“I don’t mean only for now.” Jorge says, every word pointed. “Forever, maybe.” 

Jorge’s facing him now directly, stare unwavering, but there’s some redness on his cheeks, it appears. There’s also more warmth to them than usual, Dani finds out after pressing a palm against Jorge’s flesh. And if this isn’t the most adorable look on Jorge. 

“I might have a problem moving houses with this.” Dani points to the cast wrapped around his arm. “You’ll have to carry all the boxes.”

Jorge laughs. Dani’s lips spread into a smile on their own.

“Any excuse is a good excuse, huh?” Jorge questions rhetorically. 

Shrugging, Dani doesn’t bother with a verbal answer. Instead, he throws the duvet to the end of the bed and sits sideways on the mattress, letting his feet dangle above the floor. He’s waiting, not very patiently, until Jorge leans in and then, connects their lips in what is more than a peck and less than a proper kiss. It’s slightly teasing, but above all, Dani hopes that Jorge gets it, that _yes_ hidden somewhere in-between.

Later, when Jorge picks up his jacket (another hideous one, in Dani’s opinion) after giving Dani one last kiss, he stops with a hand stilled on the door handle.“Tomorrow, see you at mine,” he half-states, half-asks.

“See you at home,” is the answer, Dani not missing how Jorge’s almost literally glowing after hearing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3


	11. Iannone/Rins [M]

Each time it happens, Andrea promises himself it will be the last time. No more. Not any longer. 

Each time Alex appears in his motorhome, with that smile Andrea knows holds not a bit of innocence, he falls, tangled in the web Rins set up for him carefully, not leaving any way out.

It’s no different today. 

The qualifying ended an hour ago, P8 for him this time, and he’s done with the debriefing, free to do as he pleases. Within the limits set by the team, at least. He has the rest of the day off and normally, he’d be out there, looking for some company to kill the time with, preferably among loud music and dim lights. But recently his normality has changed and he can’t exactly pinpoint when. 

After leaving the garage, Andrea directs his steps to his motorhome immediately. Somehow, he manages to avoid all the phones and pens, those usually pointed in his direction, but he gets it, that he’s not the main attraction here. Inside, he undoes the shoelaces and puts the cap on table, running a hand through the hair, so it sticks to his scalp a little less. A quick glance at the mirror confirms his suspicion that it’s a mess, and five minutes later water mixed with shampoo is running through it in an attempt to clean not only the strands but also Andrea’s thoughts. 

The hoodie wrapped around his body warms him too much, doesn’t fit the grades shown on the thermometer. He’s glancing at the clock and the arms move much slower than he’d like them to; he knows it will take at least fifteen other minutes before Alex finds him in the living room, on the edge of the seat, in both the literal and figurative sense. A routine they’ve established and follow, though, no rules were either written or even spoken out loud. Somehow, they find each other perfectly without those, always aware where and how to catch the other. 

The lock clicks and Andrea tries to remember when he offered Alex the access to to not only his motorhome but also mind and body. It takes little time before he’s under that spell once again, letting Alex guide him wherever he wants, with no objection. 

“You seem distracted,”Alex comments, tugging on the strings of Andrea’s hoodie. He’s moved, almost sitting on Andrea’s lap now, their knees hitting occasionally, shoulders bumping. There’s barely any space between them left, and Andrea wants him both closer and farther and at the same time, wants not to want him like he does. 

“I’m not,” he counters, a weak lie he knows Alex won’t buy. 

This time, he hopes, Alex will let it slip. 

“Good,” comes Alex’s answer, no more questions. Andrea shivers because he recognizes it, the voice slipping into _that_ tone, and he can easily predict what’s coming next. “Because I made plans for us.”

He can vaguely recall the first time it reached his ears, but he cannot tell whether the bigger surprise was Alex letting it out, or finding himself on the receiving end of that low rumble. Either way, it holds no importance as his resistance is futile, crumbling the moment Alex opens his mouth. 

Mere minutes later Andrea’s shaking slightly, the coolness from the air conditioning blowing softly over his bare body, forcing his limbs into a tremble. The fabric that used to cover his skin is folded neatly on the chair and he remembers all too well what happened that one time it wasn’t, frowning at the memory. He tries to stay motionless, as the order given to him said, not willing to commit another mistake, but he’s on the verge of failure when Alex’s sight stops on some spot on his body for a little longer.

The sound of the steps is louder, Alex approaching, but Andrea knows better that to rise his gaze from the dark wood he’s sitting on. Don’t move, Alex said, and he finds himself following the command though, not without effort. 

He laces fingers behind his back, preparing for the bounds that undoubtedly will make it around his wrists, just like those which left the pale but still visible marks last time. 

“You didn’t do what I asked.” Andrea is reminded of the earlier incident, the voice coated in sweetness he’s aware is only the outer layer. “You know what this means?” Alex trails a finger on his chest, warm, contrasting with the cold air. Andrea cannot hold in that yelp that follows after Alex gives his nipple a pinch, the possible consequences forming in his thoughts. 

“Yes, sir,” he murmurs, the collar wrapped around his neck tight, on the brink of uncomfortable. Alex tugs on it, and for a second Andrea’s lungs are empty, the air not circulating; it’s a reminder, he’s aware, of what exactly his position in this is. “I’ll be good.” 

Andrea isn’t sure whether any higher force exists, but when there’s only the smell of their encounter left lingering on the sheets, he prays to it, asking for forgiveness, because he knows it’s not something he could ask Belen for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where this came from, but I rather like the idea of Rins bossing Iannone around? 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	12. Jorge/Marc [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorge's natural lack of tact strikes again, but the outcome might be better than he expected. AU.

Jorge has never hated crowds more than in this moment. He woke up with a headache and then spilled the coffee all over the kitchen counter, also breaking his favourite mug, so he knew that today wasn’t going to be a good day. And he knew that having to use the underground during the rush hours was the worst idea ever, but his bike breaking on a Monday morning left him without much choice.

He sprinted out of his flat, not even bothering to tie the shoelaces, and barely made it through the gates just in time to squeeze himself through the closing doors. Luckily, at least one thing going the right way.

Being inside the wagon is an entirely different thing, though. The spikes, sticking out from some punk’s jacket, dig painfully into his shoulder, and he got elbowed by someone at least three times. There are four more stops left before he reaches his destination, but by this point, he isn’t sure he’ll make it without corporal damage. If someone steps on his foot one more time, he’ll lose all the feeling in it, Jorge’s certain.

He sighs when someone’s bad breath hits him right in the face, the smell making him nauseous. He needs to cover his nose with the hands, pressing them tightly to close his nostrils and let the air flow through his mouth. _Just a little bit more,_ he tells himself, watching as the train approaches the next station.

Knowing that making in to the to door will take some time, it has to with so many people in his way, Jorge starts moving already, the dull pain in his head growing stronger.

“Excuse me, excuse me.” He’s manoeuvring through the sea of people, trying to make his already slim frame even smaller, being squeezed from every side. There will be a bruise on his ribs where he got elbowed and he really, _really_ hopes the hand he felt on his rear was an accident, not someone actually groping him.

_Can’t get any worse, can it?_ If he could _,_ Jorge would’ve banned the morning rush hours once and for all. Sadly, he can’t, so the only left for him is to grit his teeth and endure it. Somehow.

He takes a few more steps, careful not to stomp on anyone’s feet, but it’s not as easy task. Slowly, he makes it to the door, only one person standing in his way to freedom.

Jorge asks for some space one more time, at first in Spanish and then English when it doesn’t achieve the desired effect. His plea falls on deaf ears. This person, rather short, quite a few centimetres shorter than Jorge himself, gives no reaction. He has to look down a bit at the mess of black hair, but the guy’s face is turned the other way; he can’t establish eye contact. Jorge’s arm extends on its own, an automatic gesture, and he’s tugging on this person’s shoulder, hoping maybe a physical action could make it into that thick skull.

“Are you deaf?! Dude, move.” The anger finally makes it into his voice, the words more of a growl than anything else. If Valentino hears about it, he’s going to have the time of his life. Jorge frowns at the thought of his co-worker making fun of his misfortune. He can already hear the _Yorg, your bad attitude attracts bad things_ speech in his head, Valentino’s thick accent and all.

And then, he’s met with dark eyes and the most blinding smile he’s ever been graced with.

The guy waves his hands around, the meaning of the gestures lost on Jorge. It takes a few seconds before it all falls into place, before he connects the movements with the comment he made, but when it happens, he groans, cursing his natural lack of tact.

Brilliant, just brilliant. Trust him to derogatorily call deaf someone who actually can’t hear.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I had no idea, sorry,” Jorge blurts out, words flowing at rapid pace, before realizing how futile it is. His face is burning, he can feel the heat creeping on his cheeks, spreading to the ears. Maybe the ground could swallow him before he can manage to embarrass himself more, spare him this shame, but the fortune’s never been favourable to him and this situation is no exception. He’s never had much luck in life. 

The distress must’ve shown on his face as Jorge suddenly has a hand patting him on the shoulder, the smile never leaving the guy’s face. It shifts into a grin quickly, and Jorge could swear the guy is almost laughing at him, the sound threatening to spill from his lips. 

He isn’t sure what to do with that, doesn’t know how to act. Can this guy read lips? Maybe he could try that? He has seen it in the movies before and even though he doubts their accuracy, he doesn’t have any better idea.

Slowly, opening his mouth wide, he pronounces each syllable of the words precisely. “I’m sorry for yelling at you.” It must look really stupid, a few heads have turned towards them, and he wishes for this torture to end as fast as possible, asap. He waits for a moment, playing with the strap of his watch, but the reaction he gets is not the one he expected or hoped for.

The guy tilts his head to the side and furrows eyebrows, blinking a few times.

(Jorge doesn’t fail to notice how long his eyelashes are.)

He sighs frustratedly and digs into his pocket to find his phone. His communication skills aren’t the best even when it comes to people who can hear, he’s been scolded for saying the wrong things in the wrong times more than once, but now it’s even worse. He’s clearly lost. So maybe a text will do, if he can’t do anything else.

His distress must’ve been spotted once again, that much is clear, since the guy’s hand moves from his shoulder to caress his arm, stopping near his elbow. Then, he turns, pulling on someone’s sleeve, and suddenly Jorge has another pair of eyes of him, another guy staring at him in confusion.

This one looks like a dear caught in the headlights, big doe eyes and stuff. _Babmi,_ Jorge thinks, the resemblance to the animated animal uncanny.

He stands there awkwardly, still being squeezed from every side, barely enough air to breathe, and rubs his wrist. At this point he doesn’t even care that he might be late to work (and he surely _will),_ he just wants to get out of here, fast. Now.

The two guys, they sign something to each other, the speed so fast Jorge doesn’t even try to keep up with it, however, he notices the exact moment Bambi’s eyes go wide.

Bambi turns to him, worrying his bottom lip. “Errr, hi. Marc,” He points to the shorter guy, Jorge's brain registering the name and adding it to the face, “would like to get to know you, so maybe you could text him. It would be nice."

Bambi looks _so_ out of his depth, Jorge thinks; he's squirming, and he manages to crumple a piece of paper he's been holding completely before it makes it into Jorge’s hand, full of creases. Jorge, suspicious, unfolds it, taking a closer look at what he's been given. There, the numbers are written in bold, black ink, taking almost all of the white surface, signed with _Marc_ and a smiley face.

He wants to ask, wants to know _what the hell,_ because surely this is one of the weirdest encounters he’s ever had. Is the guy, Marc, asking him out? On a date? Maybe he’s reading it all wrong, but it definitely looks like it, and honestly, he cannot think of another reason. Or is this a trick? A joke? He can’t tell.

However, he doesn’t get to ask all those questions. The train stops maybe a minute later, and before Jorge manages to find his voice, Marc and Bambi are waving at him and then, they disappear outside. He’s left standing in the same place, no less confused, and even the crowd doesn’t bother him that much anymore, barely noticeable.

For the rest of the ride, Jorge’s so fixated on the note, he doesn’t notice when he misses his stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too many unfinished drafts, so I decided it's high time to do something about it. Thus, this happened. Now, onto the other 40 stories :P 
> 
> How'd you guys like it? I hope I didn't offend anyone accidentaly, that wasn't my intention.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	13. Maverick/Valentino/Jorge [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of #2 and #9

“Spill it.”

Maverick jumps in his seat a little, the spoon falling from his hand. Jorge’s staring at him expectantly, with an intensity that indicates he won’t let go of the topic easily. He bows to pick the spoon up, setting it aside, next to a dirty plate. “Spill what?”

He still hasn’t fully got used to it – spending time with Jorge and Vale like that, as if he were more than just a third party to their relationship (And just like he thought, they really were a couple even back then when he saw them for the first time.).

With Valentino around, it’s easier. He has that easy-going air around him, the optimistic approach Maverick sometimes wishes he himself would have more of. His life would’ve been easier, especially in times like these, when no matter how much he tries, the results don’t come. And Valentino smiles regardless of how the bike acts, and the media, the fans too, are easier on him because of that. Maverick envies it.

With Jorge, they’re more alike. 

And that’s the problem with it. Maverick still isn’t sure how much he can open up, whether Jorge wants him to open up or if he doesn’t want to have anything do to with Maverick’s problems at all. It’s hard to judge what’s the right thing to do, but Jorge’s look is intense, demanding answers and not accepting any excuses. 

He takes a sip from the mug, the tea burning his tongue, before letting the words out. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Maverick says no more, but Jorge knows, gets it instantly. “The bike?” A nod in confirmation. “It’s temporary, you know that, right? They’ll get it right.” 

_Easier said than done._

“You don’t get it,” Maverick accuses, his frustration reaching a breaking point. It’s easy for Jorge to talk when he just took a win, his third this season, and the praises are coming from every side, more and more with every race. 

He, meanwhile, only gets the sarcastic comments and critique thrown at him for the littlest things. 

Jorge pulls his chair closer, so that their knees are touching. His hand lands on Maverick’s thigh, a firm and steady weight, and if Maverick had to guess, he’d think there is some disappointment in there, although he doesn’t understand why. “You think I don’t? You already forgot how much I struggled for more than a year?” Jorge asks. 

It hits Maverick then and there, just how wrong his judgement was. 

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t want it to sound like that.” He really didn’t. He feels the shame burning his cheeks. “It’s just,” he pauses, trying to arrange his thoughts into proper sentences. “Vale’s going through the same thing as I, but he’s better at dealing with it.”

“Because I’ve been down before,” a third voice cuts through the air. “Now, it’s still better than my Ducati years.”

Valentino unzips his hoodie and takes a few steps closer. He pulls a chair out, sitting on Maverick’s left while Jorge’s on his right, and then takes a few gulps from Jorge’s glass. He presses a soft kiss to each of their mouths, the scene now familiar, a part of, Maverick dares to say, their routine. 

Jorge smirks at him, looking smug. “Didn’t tame the beast.” 

“No, unlike you I didn’t,” Vale responds, but it’s not banter he’s engaging in, Maverick notes. Valentino’s clearly proud.

_I wish you were proud of me too._

His shoulders sag, mouth turning down, and even Jorge’s blush, something that rarely fails to make him grin, is not enough to lift Maverick’s mood up. 

“Maverick.” 

He picks his head up, the use of his full name a rare occurrence. It’s always _Mack this, Mack that,_ and he’s grown so used to it, that _Maverick_ sounds weird to his own ears. “Hmm?” he hums, startled by how close Valentino suddenly is. 

“Even if now it doesn’t seem like it,” Valentino says mockingly, “Yamaha knows what they’re doing. Mostly.” 

_I’ve heard it all before._ “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.” It wasn’t. He was supposed to be fighting for the title, not with satellite Ducatis, not fighting with the bike almost every racing weekend. And the worst thing is, that no matter what he says, what he tells the team, the solutions are not there. 

“We’ll get through this,” Valentino assures him immediately, pulling him onto his lap. Maverick lets himself be held, lets the long fingers run through his hair, allows Jorge to squeeze his knee gently. “You’re full of talent. You’ll win again, you just need a good bike.”

_When?_ is all Maverick wants to know, but he’s aware neither of them has the answer.

Pulling him closer, Valentino adds,“Unlike me, you have a lot of time.”

Maverick feels childish, having to be reassured like that. He should deal with it on his own, get over the problems, but he can’t deny that their closeness helps, how he enjoys it. He leans into the touch when Jorge runs a hand through his hair, the action unusual but very welcome. 

“You were a world champion at my age,” he tells Vale, trying not to make it sound like an accusation. The last thing he’d want is to be an annoyance. “Actually-” A sudden realization strikes him when he meets Jorge’s gaze. “You both were champions at that age.”

He thinks they might be getting tired of his whining, but he can’t help it, things have gone too far. 

“We also had rather good bikes back then.” 

They both agree on the matter. 

The hand travels from Maverick’s hair to rest on the nape of his neck, leaving little caresses there. “Even the best riders don’t win when they don’t have a bike capable of winning.” Jorge speaks about both himself and Valentino, obviously. He’s confident in his words, and Maverick desperately wants to believe, for that statement to be true. To have a confirmation that the issue doesn’t lay within him. 

“Maybe I could distract you somehow?” Valentino whispers in his ear, voice dropping dangerously low. 

The goosebumps form patterns on Maverick’s skin, his imagination already beginning to create various images of what Vale alludes to, and he doesn’t need much convincing to go along with the idea. He certainly could use a distraction. 

He turns a bit so that he’s properly straddling Valentino now, seeking his mouth fervently. The response is immediate, lips on his, hands gripping his hips. He notices Jorge observing them from the side, definitely interested, so Maverick reaches out, tangling his own fingers with Jorge’s, pulling him closer. 

The chair will more than likely break under the three of them, and Maverick can’t exactly imagine the logistics of it, either. It prompts him to rise up, waiting for them to do the same, and it’s not long before he has them glued to his body, Jorge to the front and Valentino on his back. They must feel it, how his arousal is rising, as their hands are wandering down his chest, under his shirt, rubbing his nipples before moving lower. 

Maverick pulls on the buttons of Jorge’s shirt, sliding the fabric down his arms, unable to stop himself from grazing the skin softly. Jorge lets him, standing still while Valentino sneaks behind Maverick with fingers on his fly. “Now you,” he says, placing a peck on Maverick’s cheek, getting rid of his pants.

Now, it’s Vale with an excessive amount of clothing still on him, Maverick decides; he gives Jorge a glance and doesn’t have to say anything to be understood as they both stand on each side of Valentino, not bothered by his momentary confusion. His fingers go under the band of Vale’s underwear while Jorge’s pull on the collar of the shirt, a yellow one, unsurprisingly. 

The three of them are standing bare, and Maverick allows himself to ogle their bodies, knowing than he can do that freely. He’s never going to get tired of looking at them, it hasn’t changed since that very first time. And he lets them do the same, no longer as self-conscious of his body as he used to be, their lustful stares boosting his confidence and arousing him further. 

“Do something,” he orders, impatience sneaking in there. He’s not willing to wait any longer, he’s had enough, and they seem to enjoy teasing him, not for the first time. 

Valentino’s lips move down his spine, cool fingers caressing his sides, and Maverick shudders when Jorge’s tongue touches his cock, barely, just enough to tease. 

“Is this okay?” The question comes with the feeling of hands landing on his asscheeks, spreading them gently, a puff of air hitting his hole. 

He has seen them doing _this_ to each other, couldn’t take his own eyes off them, but he hasn’t really thought about finding himself on the receiving end. It seemed, still seems, so _intimate._ He cannot imagine either Vale or Jorge doing this to someone who’s just an occasional fuck, so his confusion rises, spreads in his mind.

“You don’t have to,” Maverick stutters, not able to look at Valentino.

“I want to. The thing is, do you?” Valentino rises from the knees, and Maverick feels warm lips against his neck, lean chest pressed against his back. “Talk to us?”

Jorge’s now stood too, a thumb brushing Maverick’s hipbone, the second on his jaw. “Or maybe you want something else?” He adds. 

He knows what he wants. He knows exactly where he wants their hands and tongues, how he wants them to touch him, and he’s got better at expressing that since the deal (is that the right word for what they have?) they have began, but it’s still not easy. Not yet. 

His cheeks are burning and he cannot hide the tremble of his fingers properly. The voice is stuck in his throat and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to come out anytime soon, locked there for good. He swallows the spit, at least tries to do that, but his mouth is mostly dry anyway.

Finally, he gathers enough courage to voice what has been on his mind for the past minutes. “I want you to go on. Do what you were going to do before.”

_There it is. I said it._

“Your wish is my command.” Valentino can’t stay fully serious even during moments like this one, and Maverick feels his muscles relax, some of the tension leaving.

Jorge pulls him in for a kiss, confident and reassuring, _I’m here for you._

He’s overwhelmed by this, by them, by them wanting _him._ There are times still when he isn’t sure if perhaps it isn’t just a vivid fantasy, like right now when Jorge’s back on his knees and wrapping fingers around Maverick’s cock. Maverick looks over his shoulder just in time to receive a wink from Vale as his asscheeks are kneaded gently and then pulled apart. 

The sudden shyness forces him to shut the eyelids, his breathing hitching when the wet, warm touch finally reaches his hole. The sensation is not something he could compare to anything, he’s never experienced anything remotely similar, but he’s sure his heart could jump out of his ribcage any second, it’s rattling so fast against it.

In a first instinct, he pulls away from it, moving his hips forward until he hears coughing and his cock falls from Jorge’s lips.

Fuck. He’s completely fucked up right now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Maverick quickly apologizes, rubbing Jorge’s shoulder softly. His eyes are already stinging and it’s only a matter of time before the wet trails appear on his face, first signs of them starting to show up. 

“It’s alright,” Valentino reassures, but Maverick’s never been so ashamed in his life, never felt such humiliation. Jorge’s breathing is still a bit shaky, and all of Valentino’s attention is now on him, not Maverick, alert and attentive. Which makes everything worse, the fact that Valentino feels the need to do that. 

Maverick can’t help hiding face in his hands, the voice coming muffled. “It was a bad idea from the beginning, I’m sorry.” 

Hastily, he grabs his pants from the pile they’re lying in on the floor, reaching for them half-blind, his vision already getting blurry. He tries to pull them on, not caring that the denim is turned inside out. He needs to get out of here, now. 

A hand wrapping around his wrist stops him mid-motion. 

“Calm down,” Jorge tells him; it roots Maverick to the spot, deeming him immobile. “The first time I tried to give someone a blowjob, I almost puked over the guy’s dick. Now, that was embarrassing.”

Valentino elaborates on the topic, not even trying to hide his amusement. “It wasn’t me, thankfully.” 

It’s not much of a reassurance, but a corner of Maverick’s lips moves up a bit either way. He shivers when Jorge’s palm finds its way on his lower back, steadying him. His breathing is still kind of erratic, and it takes all of his courage to even glance at Jorge, to check the reaction that might’ve shown on his face. 

“What we’re trying to say,” Vale points out, “is that you worry too much. Nothing happened, Jorge’s fine. And I’m still in the mood.”

Maverick’s eyes follow where Valentino’s gaze lands on his crotch, indeed proving the words. 

Jorge nods, agreeing with everything that was said. “Same.” He’s equally hard, pushing against Maverck’s hip. 

“But what if-”

“I’ll hold your hips so you don’t buck in his mouth like that again.” Valentino makes a proposal. Extending a hand, he waits for confirmation. “Deal?” 

Maverick hesitates, weights it down. It’s a war between lust and fear of doing the wrong thing again, but he can’t deny how much he wants them both. It’s surprisingly easy for them to turn him into this state, render him helpless, and it’s no different this time, when his mouth agrees before his brain does. “Fine. Deal.” 

They quickly get back to the job, picking up where they left. This time, Maverick tries to hold back his reactions, not do anything similar to the earlier fiasco; Valentino, like he said, does grip his hips firmly, just in case. The worries blur out a bit, fading away when Jorge’s lips wrap around him, and Maverick can barely think anymore, Valentino’s ministrations only adding to the effect. 

It’s not going to last long, for him at least, he can already tell when Vale’s tongue prods and slips inside him. The moan rips out from his throat against his will, long, drawn out, almost at the same exact moment Jorge cups his balls. 

He needs to place palms on the wall, because his knees are already shaking and he isn’t sure how long they’ll be able to support his weight. Whether it’s a coincidence or some sort of synchronisation they acquired through unknown means, Maverick can’t tell, but Valentino’s tongue gives him a lick just in time with Jorge hollowing his cheeks. And this, looking down at Jorge’s face, in his eyes, is what finally does it to him.

The low groan escapes on its own as his muscles tense and then relax, the pleasure clouding his mind and only the vague sensations of Valentino and Jorge’s touch left. 

He needs a bit of time to calm his heart and steady his breathing. The bliss is spreading through his body in waves, washes over him, and he’s grateful for the hands still gripping his hips or else he might’ve collapsed to the floor, everything almost too much for him. 

Jorge licks his lips, tongue swiping over what he couldn’t swallow at first, before Valentino pulls him in a kiss, a hand on the back of his neck to keep him close. Maverick can only gape; he couldn’t count how many times he’s blushed today, but after touching his cheeks, he finds them hot again. 

He sees how Valentino spreads the lube over his fingers, grabbing his own and Jorge’s cock with one hand, reaching back behind himself with the other. And the view is too much, messing with his head, and instead of calming down, his heart breaks into a race once again. 

His eyes are glued to them, observing how their chests rise and fall faster and faster, how their panting gets louder, the expression on Jorge’s face when Valentino flicks his wrist. He has to sink his teeth in the bottom lip not to let that moan escape, afraid it could startle them somehow. 

Barely a few minutes later he hears Jorge groan and watches how Valentino’s head falls back, staring at the white stripes painted on their stomachs in fascination. 

All three of them just stand there for a moment, motionless, trying to catch their breaths. Valentino is the first to move, grabbing a tissue from the packet conveniently placed on one of the shelves, wiping Jorge’s stomach and then doing the same to his own, looking Maverick in the eyes the whole time. 

After cleaning up, Vale drags him to the other room, Jorge following closely behind. They make it to the bed, Jorge ordering them to sleep because _you can’t fall asleep during the practice, no?_ and it’s already after midnight, the hour late. On the surface it sounds a bit harsh, resembling an order. Only it isn’t, Maverick has already learnt how to read the words, how at times Jorge says one thing but means another. And this is a perfect case of that, the care visible only if someone decides to look deeper, under the brash exterior. 

The problems with the bike aren’t solved, probably won’t be in a while, but Maverick’s calmer when he finds himself in the middle between Jorge and Valentino, his heart jumping when, sleepily, Vale murmurs that _he doesn’t have to worry, the boyfriends are here for him._ Jorge tells him to shut up, but Maverick still gets a goodnight kiss from him, and maybe he could believe in both things – the M1 getting better and the boyfriends part, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These three again! I'm posting this before it turns out that they actually figured out what was wrong with the bikes haha. I wouldn't have ever thought that Yamaha's problems could lead to threesomes, but here we go. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, none of this happened, it's just a work of fiction.


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